Captive
by Jessaa-Lee
Summary: Sherlock and John are used to having a bit of a domestic every now and then. Who would have known how one little fight could end so horrifically? (Torture scenes, drug use, fluffy Johnlock)
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

BANG.

The sound resonated up into John Watson's room upstairs. He let out a resigned sigh and stood up, stumbling a few steps from tiredness. He shook himself awake and jogged down the stairs to the living room. Another loud bang sounded, and John opened the door with a huff. He found Sherlock Holmes standing on his couch, pointing a nice revolver at a picture pinned to the opposite wall. He didn't even look at John before firing another shot directly into the picture's forehead.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, storming over to his flatmate and attempting to grab the heavy gun from the slender fingers.

"John, let go, I need this for an experiment!" Sherlock grunted, fighting back the grabbing hands. Another shot fired while they were fighting over the gun, and the recoil of the '44 Magnum sent them toppling onto the couch, John on top of Sherlock. There was a moment of silence, and John looked down at Sherlock, who looked back up at him. John admired for a moment the way that the taller man's curls fell over his forehead, and how impossibly sharp his cheekbones were. He snapped back to reality and quickly snatched the gun, jumping off Sherlock, who let out a whine of disapproval.

"I do need that you know," he said. John clicked his tongue.

"I'll not have you firing into the walls! You know how Mrs Hudson hates it, and where in London did you manage to find this?" John lectured, looking over the lovely revolver before locking it in a drawer with two more firearms. "That's the third time this month Sherlock! Hasn't Lestrade given you any more cases?"

Sherlock flipped over to lie on his side facing the wall. "They're all so BORING, John! So simple that Lestrade could figure them out!" he sighed melodramatically.

John sighed back and brought a hand up to massage his temple. "Oh, John," Sherlock said, as if just remembering something.

"Mm-mm?" John replied. Sherlock flipped himself over to face John.

"Could you put on some pants?" Sherlock smiled as a blush crept over John's face. The army doctor looked down to the realisation he was only wearing his boxers. He excused himself and walked upstairs.

Upon reaching his bedroom, John locked the door behind him and flopped down onto the bed. _Stupid John, _he thought, _Stupid, stupid John._ He smacked the palm of his hand against his head and sighed. Forgetting his pants any other time would have been a laughable thing, but he'd tackled Sherlock. They'd fallen onto the couch. John was on top of Sherlock. John had stayed down longer than necessary.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, _John thought, _He could have found out. _

That was a stupid thought in itself. John knew that Sherlock knew. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes for god sake. There was no way he hadn't noticed John's feelings for him. And if he hadn't before, then he'd definitely know now.

After a few moments, John finally stood and got dressed and put on a pair of shoes. He shook off any remaining embarrassment and walked downstairs to the kitchen. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, and John decided to make himself a cup of tea. He leaned against the bench and exhaled loudly. Sherlock's equipment was still set up on the kitchen table, and there was a jar of what seemed to be teeth sitting on top of the refrigerator. The ex-army doctor smiled a little at them. John often thought that Sherlock's weird habits were quite endearing. Body parts in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, it was never as disgusting as he often expressed. He'd seen worse in his time, anyway.

The kettle let out a whistle, and John turned back around to finish making his tea. His favourite thing to think about was the smile that would creep onto his friend's face whenever he'd successfully solved a big case.  
There was no doubt about it; Ex-Army doctor John H. Watson was completely infatuated with one Sherlock Holmes. He had been for about six months. And so far he'd hidden it well, though he had this constant fear that despite this, the detective knew. Which was a highly likely situation, when you think about it.

John laughed a little, and poured some milk into his cup. "I'll have one too, if you're still making one," a voice behind him said. John spun around to find the tall man standing in the doorway to the hallway, looking at him. John cleared his throat.

"What would you ah, what would you like?" he asked. Sherlock yawned.

"Earl grey, one sugar. Do we have any left?" Sherlock replied. John turned around and opened the cupboard. He peered inside and pulled out a small box.

"We're out, I'm afraid. We've got Irish Breakfast if you like tha-oh!" John turned around to find his friend standing a mere two feet from him, peering into his eyes as if looking for something. John stood stock still and looked everywhere but at Sherlock.

"Ahh, what are you doing?" he asked. Sherlock looked a little closer.

"Something is wrong." He said, startling John, who side stepped away from the situation.

"Nope, not at all. What makes you say that?" John evaded. Sherlock stepped over to where John was now standing and looked the smaller man over.

"Hmm, perhaps not _wrong_. No. Something is _right. _Yes. That's it. But what?" Sherlock said, asking himself.

John turned around and started making Sherlock's tea. He knew the detective was right behind him, looking at him, making deductions. "Nothing in particular, I'm just in a good mood. It's a lovely day outside, you know? I might go for a walk later. You should too!" he replied, curving the conversation.

Sherlock pressed on. "You were giggling when I walked in. Your pupils have dilated slightly and you are _obviously _trying to deter me from asking about it. You are also blushing," The tall man indicated.

John's cheeks went even redder. Sherlock knew. There was no way he didn't. "I wasn't _giggling_, Sherlock. I was having a bit of a laugh to myself. How long were you even standing there? And how do you know if I'm blushing? You can't even see my face!" John pressed.

This made Sherlock smirk. "It's my kitchen too, so that doesn't matter. And I know you're blushing, because your neck is red too, just like whenever you're around those silly women you always seem to want to da- Oh!"  
Sherlock's face held the same expression it usually had whenever he solved a nice murder. He stepped back and John turned around to face a knowing look.

"What?" he questioned, his voice laced with nervousness.

"You're in love. It's quite obvious. But this is different. No, not like the stupid little affections you have had before. No, you are completely in love. So, the question is, who is it? It's not another boring teacher is it?" Sherlock revealed his hypothesis, and John's breath hitched for a moment. His face was redder than ever and having Sherlock looking at him, deducing _everything_ wasn't helping.

"I'm not in love, Sherlock. Don't be daft!" John stammered, to no prevail. Sherlock smiled wider.

"Well, the evidence is stacked well against your claims, John. I shall have to guess," Sherlock dictated.

"So, considering this is not just a fondness, it must be somebody you converse with on a regular basis. You _normal_ people do take a lot of time to fall in love. It's quite melodramatic, really. Now, who would you see on a regular basis? Ooh, is it Molly? No. It is obviously platonic between you two".

John swallowed as Sherlock took to deducing. It wouldn't be such a problem, except that Sherlock had made it known within their first day of even knowing each other that he wasn't interested in anything. And he'd spent so long trying to prove he wasn't gay.

"Hmmm, it's not any of the women you've previously dated. What other women do you see on a regular basis? Not Donovan. Or perhaps it's not a woman at all. Seems much more likely, considering the amount of women you see on a daily basis compared to men. Your pupils are now fully dilated and you are most certainly blushing. It _is_ a man," Sherlock deduced, grinning at John, who was trying to keep his cool.

If Sherlock were to find out, well, he'd never hear the end of it. And he didn't doubt that the whole of Scotland Yard would end up finding out if Sherlock did.

"It's a patient!" John said quickly. It was futile to lie to such an intelligent man, but it was worth a shot.

Sherlock stopped for a moment. He looked at John, curious. "Hmm?"

"She's a patient, from the clinic. I, uh didn't say anything because it's against the clinic's policy," John lied through his teeth, hoping he was being convincing enough.

A moment of silence followed, and Sherlock stood up straight, fixing his jacket. "Well, you had better not tell anybody then, could be bad," he said, walking out of the kitchen to sit on the couch. John sighed. He'd dodged a bullet there. But he couldn't help but notice that Sherlock seemed a little disappointed. _Probably because he didn't get to deduce truth_, John thought.

He looked back to the tea and frowned as he realised both cups were stone cold. He tipped them down the sink and walked out to the living room, grabbing his jacket and opening the front door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock said, not bothering to look up. John walked out the door and called out to his friend, "For that walk I mentioned before," before closing the door behind him, leaving Sherlock in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Here, have some feels!  
But really, hope it's not too boring already!**

**Chapter 2**

John walked around London for three hours, stopping for the occasional coffee in small coffee shops. He liked the friendly atmosphere and the calm air every once in a while.  
Usually, he would go to a specific destination, but not today. He didn't have a certain place in mind. All he cared about was his close call with Sherlock this morning. There was no way that Sherlock actually _believed _that rubbish about dating a patient. John knew that the detective was much cleverer than that. Though, it really did seem like he believed it.

John sighed heavily and leaned himself against the rail of the small bridge. What he hadn't noticed however, was the casually dressed man that seemed to be everywhere at the same time as him. In the coffee shops, the mall, the park that John was now standing in. Somehow, he hadn't noticed.

At least not until the man wrapped his arm stealthily around the doctor's head and covered his mouth with a damp cloth. John only had enough time to register that he was being chloroformed before blacking out.

…

Sherlock groaned loudly, flopping back down on the couch in frustration. He'd just solved four cases in a row, each just as dull as the last. He sighed and sat back up, looking for his violin. Picking it up, he realised he had no real desire to play, but began to anyway. It suddenly crossed his mind that John had been out for a long time. He didn't think much of it, and went back to playing his violin.

After some mindless improvising, he began to think about the morning's events. John was dating a patient. _Good for him_, he thought, _hopefully not as dull as the last lot._  
It was with that that he got a small twinge in his chest. He wasn't sure what it meant, and kept playing. The more he thought about John and his new girlfriend, the stronger the twinge. He placed his violin down and brought his fingers together to form a pyramid.  
_Anger? No. Boredom? Hardly, boredom feels very different. Hmm, let's see… Is it? No, impossible. It can't be jealousy. There's no reason to be jealous of anything. Of course not._

Sherlock looked up at the clock, and realised that John had been gone for six hours. He furrowed his brows. This was not like John at all. He thought maybe that John was with his new girlfriend.

_There it is again. Why does John insist on spending so much time with such tedious people?_

The twinge hit him again. He brushed it off as concern and picked up his phone.

'It's getting late. – SH'

No reply.

'John, come home – SH'

Again, no reply.

'Are you with someone? It's quite rude of you not to let me know – SH'

Still no reply. This concerned Sherlock. He wondered if John had his phone off. Impossible, he thought. John had his phone on constantly. It crossed his mind for a moment that John might be ignoring him. Flicking through his short list of contacts, he called up Lestrade.

"_Sherlock? Are you finished those cases_?" Lestrade asked almost instantaneously.

****"Yes, they were dreadfully easy, but that's not why I'm calling. Is John with you?" Sherlock replied.

"_John? No, Sherlock I'm at home. Of course John's not with me. He's not at the Yard either, or Molly would have said so. Why? What's going on Sherlock?_" Lestrade answered, obviously very confused.

"John's been out for six hours. No replies on his phone and no sign of him," Sherlock said, concern creeping up quite quickly.

"_Jesus! Do you think something's happened to him_?" Lestrade exclaimed.

**"**I don't know, I'm going to look for him," with that, Sherlock hung up on the D.I. and opened his computer. A tone went off to show that he'd received a new email. He didn't care all that much until he saw that there was no traceable sender. He clicked into the message and was completely disturbed by what he saw.  
A photograph, quite large. However, it was what was in the photograph that made his stomach flip and his mouth run dry. There was Doctor John Watson, tied to a chair with a bloodstained cloth in his mouth. He was badly bruised and bleeding from the mouth, nose and several horrifying lacerations on his arms, neck and face. He looked barely conscious, and barely _alive._

Sherlock stood up and breathed shallowly. After taking a moment to regain his thoughts, he sat back down and clicked 'Reply' with trembling fingers. He tried his best not to look at the picture, but it was there.

'Who are you?  
What have you done to John?  
What do you want?'

He sent three simple questions. It was inevitable; he needed to study the photograph.  
Clicking on the photo, the image filled the screen. He scanned the picture for twenty minutes before realising that there was nothing he could gain from it. No possible way to narrow down a location, or possibly a suspect. It was just a nearly dead John Watson staring Sherlock in the face with blank eyes.

No reply for another hour. He wasn't about to wait for one either. In one swift movement, Sherlock snatched up the laptop and stuffed it into John's carry bag. Grabbing his coat, he glided down the stairs and out the door. It took a few tries to finally hail a cab, and in no time he was out the front of Scotland Yard.

"_Sir, there's been a break in,"_ the voice over the phone said.

Greg Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes. "Not our division," he said, brushing off the report.

"H_e's actually in your office, Sir_," the younger Officer said. Greg raised an eyebrow. Why there would be anybody in his office had him buggered, and he wanted to find out why.

"I'll be there soon, keep any officers outside," He said, hanging up on the officer. Without even thinking of grabbing his coat, the D.I. jogged out to his car, and made his way to the Yard. Upon arrival, he saw several officers waiting out the front for instructions. Greg made his way up to the front door and observed the locks. "How did he get in?" he asked, frustrated.

"Uhh, it looks like he just broke the lock. It's snapped on the inside," a young officer with short hair replied.

"What? So you mean he just broke the lock and waltzed on in? Right, stay outside, I'll go in and investigate. Keep an ear out for any instructions over the radio. Got it?" Lestrade pushed the door open and made his way up to his office. There was a light on, and he drew his weapon, sneaking over to the door to catch his intruder by surprise.  
Bursting through the door, he found the world's only Consulting Detective using both his desktop computer and another two laptop computers, deep in thought.

"Christ, I should have known!" the Detective Inspector sighed sarcastically. He pulled the two-way to his mouth and pressed the button. "It's fine. No need for backup," he demanded.

"Thank you. It was getting hard to think with those fools down there," Sherlock said without looking up.

Greg looked at him, honestly shocked at Holmes's lack of care. "Dammit Sherlock, you've just broken into a government agency! If you're that desperate for cases, you can wait until we've actually got one for you! You can't just go looking for them when you're bored!" Lestrade roared.

Sherlock just furrowed his brows and slammed his hands down onto the desk with force enough to knock over various objects. Finally he looked up at the D.I. with a glare that could cut glass. Greg had never seen Sherlock so angry. He thought it best to approach the situation a little more calmly, lest he have to deal with an angry sociopath.  
Sherlock unplugged his laptop from the external monitor and turned it around so Greg could catch the full brunt of the image.

"Oh, god… Shit…. Sherlock… What… What IS that?" he stammered. Sherlock just looked at him.

"I don't know. It came to me through an email. I... I've been trying to track the sender, but there doesn't seem to be a sender at all. I tried calling John's phone again, but there was no answer. So I traced it. The phone has been completely destroyed. It's impossible to determine where he is, as well," Sherlock said, a trace of fear present in his voice.

Greg was stunned. He sat down in one of the spare chairs in front of his desk. "There's… _nothing_? Sherlock, I'll make sure the Yard is searching for him," he said.

"No. Don't bring any of them into this. I only need your help. I need access to everything. And I mean _EVERYTHING_. I don't care about top secret," Sherlock replied.

Greg was, for the first time, feeling extremely sympathetic towards Sherlock. He leaned forward a little. "You don't think…"

"NO!" Sherlock bellowed threateningly, "John is _not_ dead. Not yet. Not _ever_". He softened to a near whisper on the last two words. Greg immediately regretted his comment. Never in his life had he seen Sherlock like this. And it wasn't like he didn't know what Sherlock was going through. He'd been in a similar situation. Seeing a friend on the verge of death and wanting to do everything in your power to bring them back. Nothing would stop Sherlock Holmes from finding his friend, and Greg was damn certain he wouldn't _let _anything stop him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hope that last chapter made things a little more interesting. It's just going to get more intense from here, so yeah. Try not to kill me! This will be a pretty long chapter, and a bit OOC. I tried my best to keep it believable though, but the literary quality of this chapter might be lower than it ever will be. I sincerely apologise, and it will definitely be up to standard next chapter!**

**Chapter 3**

There was yelling. So much yelling coming from all directions and it was deafening. John had no idea where he was or if he could even feel the rest of his body. It was an agonising effort to even open his eyes. Once he did, he took a short glance at his surroundings. It's not like it helped. Everything was blurry and tinted red. He wondered if this was one of Sherlock's experiments. After a few moments, he attempted to stand. A bone-shattering cry filled the room and everything went silent for a moment. Everything hurt more than he'd ever felt before. Panic set in and he tried to struggle out of his bonds, to no prevail.

"Sh…" he tried to say, his throat burning with a fire that he'd never felt. He tried again.

"She… Sher…Sherlock…" he said hoarsely. Once he knew he could say it, he tried harder, ignoring the pain.  
"Sherlock… Sherlock!" He cried. Over and over he shouted out the name, barely hearing the laughter around him, mocking his helpless pleas. A sharp blow silenced him, and he coughed hard. Blood dribbled down his chin and he gritted his teeth. He made an effort of staying quiet and listening. There was men surrounding him, four? No, there was only two. John shook his head as best he could. He was seeing doubles, and he spat out the fresh blood that was pooling in his mouth. The men left the room and slammed the metal door shut behind them, leaving the sound to ring through John's ears and make him cry out in pain. It was an effort to even think.

Despite that effort, he let his thoughts wander to Sherlock. He wondered if the Consulting Detective even knew he was gone, or even cared. Sherlock probably thought John was with his girlfriend, which was bollocks, considering he didn't even have one. This sparked a small anger inside him.  
_Dammit, Sherlock. You're smart enough to see it's a lie! _He thought. He suddenly found himself feeling guilty. It was not Sherlock's fault. It was John's. Maybe if he'd just told his flatmate the truth, this wouldn't have even happened. He started feeling weaker, and he closed his eyes. Breath getting shallower, balled fists releasing to droop down, John's mind went soft, not even having the energy to panic anymore. Regret flooded in, and the doctor let out a short sob.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here and my best friend won't even know. He won't know where I am. He'll probably think I've run away. No, he's smarter than that. I don't want to die yet. Please god, let me live…_

…..

Sherlock and Lestrade spent the remainder of the night trying to trace the sender of the gruesome email. They traced nearly every possible sender in all of London. Still nothing. Sherlock was getting more and more determined every moment and it was almost beginning to scare Greg.

"I just don't know. There's got to be something!" he said, frustrated. Sherlock grunted.

"Well, if I knew, I would have tried it, wouldn't I?" The detective mumbled. Suddenly, a message popped up on Sherlock's laptop. It was a video call request with a blank host. Without even thinking, he accepted. The new window opened up to show the same image as the first. After a moment, a face popped into frame, and the man walked around to stand behind the chair. The face was masked, so well in fact, that Sherlock couldn't even deduce an identity. The man put his hands to John's head and forced the Doctor to look dead on at the camera.

"Say hello," the man taunted. The mask was fitted with a voice changing device, so the voice sounded higher and more manic. John forced his barely conscious eyes half open and let more blood drip down his chin.  
"She… Sherlock…" he stammered. Sherlock let out a short gasp and covered his mouth with his hands. The man patted John on the head patronisingly and walked around the front to swing a fierce punch that hit Watson square on the cheek. Blood sprayed from the Doctor's mouth on impact. Sherlock gripped the desk hard, his short nails leaving deep scratches. The man struck a few more blows and left the room, leaving the camera running.

"John! John can you hear me!?" Sherlock shouted at the monitor. Lestrade didn't know what to do, and stepped behind Sherlock in case something was to happen. John didn't register his friend's shouting until Sherlock had nearly screamed the building down.

"Sherlock… God, help me…" John said hoarsely. Sherlock heard every word loud and clear, as if the microphone was right next to John.

"John, talk to me! Are you all right? Answer me! Where are you? Who is there?" Holmes shouted, his nails digging deeper into the desk.

"Sherlock…. I'm... not all right. I don't… I don't know…. Where I am… Who… It smells like blood…. and fuel… pineapples…. Help me Sherlock…." The ex-army doctor coughed violently, and the camera went dark. Sherlock and Lestrade had enough time to hear a gunshot before the call ended and the window closed.

"Sherlock, I'm sure they didn't. Sherlock, please," Greg tried to calm down the Detective. Holmes stood, and pushed the laptop off the desk aggressively, letting it crash to the floor before storming out. It was morning, and employees were already arriving at work, but Sherlock didn't move for them. He only stopped when confronted by Anderson, who made some snide remark about the tears forming in the Consulting Detective's eyes. Sherlock cut him short with a spiteful crack, and walked away in silence as other employees tried to help Anderson clean his bleeding nose.

…..

Molly Hooper collected her charts and walked briskly back down to the mortuary, intent on finally completing a few more examinations. She swiped her ID card and pushed the large white door open with practised ease. Setting the stack down, she hummed lightly as she opened a chemicals cupboard, retrieving a few samples and placing them onto the desk. The two bodies were already laid out for her, and she only needed a few syringes to begin. Still humming, Molly walked around the large stainless steel benches and tripped, dropping the papers she had picked up to look over, and falling onto the floor. A large, pale hand was held out to her, and she looked up to find Sherlock Holmes sitting under one side of the bench, tears pooling in his enchanting grey-blue eyes and rolling down his cheeks. Molly's eyes widened in confusion.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" the mousey girl asked, her voice laced in genuine concern. Sherlock was quiet and Molly took the trembling hand in front of her. The detective lightly tugged her closer and she sat beside him, quiet. There was no point in asking if Sherlock wasn't going to tell. He never did anyway. Molly was content in sitting under the steel bench beside the Detective while he stared blankly into nothing.

Finally, Sherlock spoke  
"Molly…" he said, his voice cracked, though barely audibly. Molly looked at Sherlock with a reassuring look.

"Yes Sherlock?" She said softly.

"Something's happened to John…" he said, his voice cracking much more on the last word. "He's been captured. He's…. He's nearly dead. They sent pictures and a video…" He said, and Molly swallowed hard, tears lightly forming in her own eyes.

John was a friend of Molly's too, and the news hit her hard as well. She sobbed once and tried to regain herself for Sherlock's sake.

"God, who has him? You'll be able to find them, I know you can," she said, trying to be strong. Sherlock balled his hands into fists, clutching tight to the fabric of his trousers at his knees.

"I can't. There's no possible way of determining where he is, or who has him. They know what they're dealing with. They… The camera…" Sherlock admitted shakily, more tears filling his eyes. Molly couldn't help but think about how strange it was to see Holmes _crying. _

"What about the camera? You can tell me, Sherlock," she said, placing a hand on the detective's arm to show sincerity.

Sherlock tilted his head back and breathed in a few quick breaths. He was actually sobbing. Molly's heart broke at the sight, but she dared not show it.

"When the screen went black, there was a gunshot. I don't know what after that. I… I don't know anything, Molly. I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore. Look at me, I'm crying! It's pathetic! I just want to know if they… If John is…." He cut himself off with a loud weep. He was scared, and he didn't know why his emotions were falling apart. He'd never been like this. It was too… _human_. And it was so far out of his character that he questioned his overall sanity.

"They couldn't have. They _wouldn't_ have," Molly said, her voice reassuring, yet holding a slight firmness as if to assert her opinion. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he looked at her. "How would you know?" he said, a little angry.

"Because they want to hurt _you _obviously. If it was just John, they wouldn't have sent pictures and videos. They're trying to get to you. They're going to make it agonising. John isn't dead, Sherlock. You have to try though. You have to push through and solve this case like you solve every case. You're brilliant, and John is counting on you," Molly looked away for a moment and Sherlock sniffed.

"You're…. you're right," Sherlock whispered, slightly awestruck, "How could you have known that? How didn't I see it? There has to be evidence, but what… God, these… _emotions _are getting in the way. Arghh! It's so _hateful!_"

Sherlock slammed his fist onto his knee. Molly pulled her legs up to sit with them crossed. "It's because you care," she said. Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't know how. He only stood from under the bench and regained his composure. Molly stood also and grabbed a tissue from a box on a nearby bench. She handed it to the tall man and leaned back against the bench.

Sherlock leaned forward and actually hugged Molly. The act surprised the woman into silence, and she wrapped her arms around the detective. When Sherlock pulled away, he looked her dead in the eye, not commenting on the bright pink blush that had crept up her cheeks.

"Thank you. You're not normal at all, you're much brighter," the Detective quickly kissed her tiny hand and headed for the door. Molly stood alone in the mortuary, trying to compose herself. Had Sherlock just complimented her? It was all so out of character, but she didn't mind. She knew that Sherlock could find John. That he was the only one that could find John. Looking down, she noticed that the papers were still all over the floor, and she picked them all up, continuing on with her work, hoping and praying that John would be found soon and found safe.


	4. Chapter 4

_**TRIGGER WARNING**_** – Torture scenes. Just letting you know, in case.  
Chapter 4**

Sherlock sat in his armchair with his hands together in a pyramid. The detective was lost in thought. His tea had long since gone cold, and he could hear the patter of rain on the windows. He shouted out in frustration. Launching himself out of the armchair, he walked over the coffee table and to the drawer where John put all of his confiscated guns. The drawer was locked, and Sherlock slumped down in front of it. _No,_ he thought, _John doesn't like it_.  
He heard footsteps rushing up the stairs, and wanted to just lock every door and hide away from the world. He knew he never could. John was counting on him.

Mrs Hudson opened the door and walked over to the man. "Are you all right dear? I heard your shouting. You can sure make an ungodly racket!" she said with a smile, "It's a wonder John hasn't said anything!"

Sherlock curled himself up tighter at the sound of the Doctor's name. "John's not here," he said quietly. Mrs Hudson shrugged. She didn't know any better.

A quiet beep made Sherlock jolt upright. He'd just received an email. "Out." He demanded, and rushed to his dented laptop. Mrs Hudson didn't know what was going on.  
"Sherlock, What on earth?" was all she had time to say before the baritone voice cut her off.

"Mrs Hudson, you need to leave. Trust me. This is for your own good," he said. Deep down, he didn't want her to see any emails of John. He was concerned for her, and she could tell.  
"Okay dear, but don't go running amuck!" she said, walking out of the flat, leaving the detective alone to read his emails.

He'd received two emails, one from Lestrade, which was a bore, and another from Sargent Donovan. It was some nonsense about apologising to Anderson. _Boring._

He sighed heavily and punched the desk. A wave of emotion ran over him and he inhaled sharply. He wondered why he was having so many sentiments lately. It was not like him to become so attached to a case emotionally. Obviously he was angry; his only friend had just been taken from him. He remembered the first time it had happened. The stand-off with Jim Moriarty at the pool that had John strapped up to a bomb vest. The memory made his stomach lurch. This time, the chance of losing John was much greater. Sherlock wondered for a moment if Moriarty could be responsible. It was impossible though. The Consulting Criminal was much too clean. If he wanted Sherlock and John dead, he would have killed them already. A ringing noise interrupted his thought, and he found that he was being invited to a video call.

The video was rolling again. John's eyes were watering profusely. The pain of his leg was far too much to bear. He looked at the camera as best he could, and could see Sherlock's pale face through the small monitor. There was nobody in the room with him, his captors nowhere to be seen or heard.  
_"John!? Can you hear me?" _ the deep voice came through the speakers.  
"Sherlock," John managed to get out painfully. He was parched, and his voice cracked when he spoke.

"_John_!" Sherlock shouted. He looked over the screen and his eyes widened at the gaping hole in John's leg. "_Oh my god, are you okay? Listen to me; I'm going to find you!"_ **  
**

The words comforted the Doctor, and he could have sworn the Detective sounded a bit _scared._ It didn't matter. He kind of liked these video calls. He knew Sherlock didn't, but John liked to see the gorgeous pale face every once in a while. It gave him something to keep holding on for. He tried to smile, and a pain shot up through his jaw and made him shout. The metal doors opened, and the two men walked in, one carrying a plastic bottle and the other carrying a handful of cloths and a lighter. John watched the detective's face fall as he realised what was going to happen.

"_John! John!" _Sherlock yelled at the laptop. One of the men coated a cloth in the clear liquid and held it up. John could smell it and prepared himself mentally as best he could. One of the men left the room, and Sherlock watched as the second man lightly trailed the drenched cloth up John's arm. John shouted as the bleach wiped off into his cuts and gashes. He stopped, and held up the cloth, before pressing it to John's cheek on a particularly nasty laceration. The cries were so loud that Sherlock's speakers almost broke. John opened his tear filled eyes to find the Detective's own eyes were growing red with light tears.

There was laughter, and the cloth was pressed to another violent gouge. John screamed again, and his teeth ground together. Sherlock was shouting something, but the pain was so overwhelming that John could only pick up a muffled flurry of noise. His nerves felt like they were being torn out one by one, and he could hear a loud shout that he soon realised was his, as the cloth was held roughly against more wounds. Soon, the cloth ran dry, and John sobbed. It was painful to even breathe, and he just wanted to stop. Then he thought about Sherlock. He thought about the raven haired beauty who didn't even know that John had feelings for him.

The captor laughed, and held up a blanket needle and the lighter. Slowly, he began to heat up the needle to become red hot. Sherlock was shouting at the man. John was still thinking about Sherlock. He wanted to tell the detective, just in case he didn't make it.  
"Sherlock… I… ," John's barely audible sound was cut off by a vicious pain. The hot needle pierced his cheek, charring flesh and muscle and burning his dry tongue. There was a flash of brightness behind John's eyes, and he screamed. The man, quite happy with his work, left the needle in its place and walked out of the room, leaving the great Sherlock Holmes screaming at the monitor. The camera cut off and a face appeared. Masked, the face of the man who had tortured John.

"Sherlock Holmes, a pleasure to meet you. Your friend makes a lovely pet, so much fun to cut up!" the maniacal voice laughed. Sherlock was silent. The man continued talking, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was more focussed on screen capturing the masked face. He captured a separate image of only the eyes. _Oh yes, he's made a mistake_, Sherlock thought. The screen cut black, and Sherlock launched himself up and to his bedroom. Whilst trying to get changed, he picked up his phone and dialled Lestrade.  
"_Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Lestrade," _the voice said.

"Lestrade, I'm coming in," Sherlock said, his voice determined.

"_What? Have you found something?"_ Lestrade asked.

"Eyes, Lestrade. Our kidnapper has very unique eyes," Sherlock informed, "Twenty minutes, your office".

"_Sherlock! You can't! I have clients in right now!" _ Lestrade tried, but the detective had already hung up. There was a fierce determination in his blood, and the fresh images of John in his mind both driving him to solve his most important case yet.


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N: Sorry about the poor writing quality of this chapter. Been very busy with other things. Hope you enjoy anyway.**

**Chapter 5**

Greg Lestrade was just ushering his clients out of his office when the mysterious man in the long black coat swept past then and into the room. Lestrade apologised to the couple, and joined Sherlock in the office. When he turned around, the detective had already hung up his coat, set up his laptop and plugged it in to Lestrade's desktop computer. With a sigh, he walked over to have a look.

"Now, what about the eyes?" he asked, annoyed. Sherlock rolled his own eyes.

"I caught a glimpse of our captor's eyes," Sherlock informed, opening up the images and dragging a few across screens to display on the large monitor, "Look". He pointed to the highest quality screen capture. "The eyes are a peculiar mixture of Blue, Green and brown. This narrows down our search immensely!" the detective barely smirked. He still had the fresh images in his mind. Lestrade looked a little closer.

"Blimey, you'd think he'd want to hide that. It's pretty rare, did you think that it could-," Lestrade was cut off by the Consulting Detective.

"Yes, I have. They are not contact lenses; you would be able to see the outline. Also, if they were lenses, at this angle, you would be able to see the natural colour of the eye beside the pupil. Cosmetic lenses have room for the pupil to dilate whilst not completely covering the pupil. You can see that the pupil is only half dilated, and there is no colour difference. These are not cosmetic lenses, these are obviously real eyes. Now, we just need to run the description through the system and find a match," the detective explained in his usual smooth and swift manner.

Lestrade shrugged. "Sure, go ahead," he said, "How did you get these pictures anyway?"

Sherlock kept pressed his pale lips together into a line. Lestrade moved to the front of the desk and sat down. His face looked stern, yet concerned. He'd known Sherlock a long time, and he could admit that he hardly knew anything about the detective. He did know however, that the detective was keeping something from him.

"You got another video," he finally said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes".  
"Tell me about it".  
"No".

Lestrade furrowed his brows. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. John is my mate too. I want to know what's going on," he demanded firmly.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "If you _must _know, I spent my morning watching John have bleach rubbed into his wounds, and red-hot pins put through his cheeks. If you are too _stupid_ to realise, I am not in a very sanguine mood this morning. It would be much more beneficial for you to just _shut up._" Sherlock growled, not noticing the look on Lestrade's face.

"I'm done with this. I've put up with your insults for years now, and it's high time I said something, innit? I understand you're upset about John, we all are. But you don't have to get so offensive. You should talk to someone," Lestrade suggested. It was true, his patience was wearing very thin, but he was human enough to know how to go about asserting himself against the detective at a time like this.

"Why would I need to talk to someone? I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock spat, not even looking up.

"It's obvious you're not. Like I said, I'm not an idiot. I've been doing some deducing of my own," Lestrade said, dumbing down the word 'Deducing' as if it were a stupid term. He knew it wasn't. What Sherlock could do was fantastic.

"And what do you think you've found?" The detective asked sarcastically, a spiteful tone in his voice.

"You haven't slept, Sherlock. And you've been moodier than a teenage girl. Yeah, he's your mate, and you have every right to be upset. But seriously, you're acting as if you've had your _husband_ taken," Lestrade pulled a chair around to sit next to Sherlock, who had his face in his hands.

"Look," Lestrade started, softening his tone to be as soothing as he could, "I'm not trying to be a dick. You really need to talk to somebody. Like, Molly or something. Maybe even your brother, I don't know. You can talk to me if you want, just get all of it out. I don't want to see those marks anymore. Not again".

Lestrade looked at Sherlock's arm, where an angry welt had popped up from a needle mark. Sherlock pushed his sleeve down to hide it. Sherlock tried to say some sarcastic response, but nothing came to him. For a moment, he felt something different. Vulnerable. He mentally cursed himself for being so emotional. It wasn't like him.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, barely audibly. Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  
"I don't know. It's my fault he's gone. I shouldn't have been so intrusive. I was only curious," Sherlock whispered. He felt somewhat guilty. More so than he'd ever felt.

Lestrade looked at the tall man. "Tell me about it," he asked politely.

"I caught John laughing in the kitchen, and I asked him about it. I told him that I knew he was in love, and I was about to guess who it was, when he told me, and then went out. I thought he was going to see his new girlfriend or whatever the woman is," Sherlock explained.

"Is that it?" was the reply.

"I sort of made a joke or two about how he was blushing furiously," Sherlock confessed, "He'd been acting strange all morning. Nearly blushing the whole time".

Lestrade leaned back and crossed his arms. "Well, what about you?" he asked. He knew how to counsel. It was just about asking the right questions. It was part of his training, and he figured it might come in handy at that present point in time.

"Nothing".

"There's something. You can tell me. It's not like I'm going to tell the whole department. I'm not that kind of person," Lestrade reassured.

"It's stupid. Pathetic, even".

"Just tell me".

Sherlock sighed. "I've been having these… _emotions._ Every time I think about John or the case I get these pangs of feelings and I haven't a clue what they mean. It's hateful, how do you normal people deal with it. I wish I could just delete them".

Lestrade smirked. He knew exactly what Sherlock's problem was. He didn't dare say it though. The amount of drama that would follow if he mentioned it wouldn't be worth adding to the more important situation at hand.

Suddenly, there was a short tone, and they both looked at the computer. The monitor displayed the words 'NO MATCH' in large red block letters. Sherlock slammed his hands down onto the desk. His face held a dangerous expression.

"How can there be no match!?" he shouted, furiously clicking through the search terms he'd entered and made sure everything was sound.

Lestrade stood and paced a bit. "One blue eye, and one half and half. There's no way it's not on the system," he said, confused.

"Unless he's somehow removed himself from the system," Sherlock growled, his baritone voice sounding threatening. "I need to think alone," he said, and swiftly grabbed his things. He was out the door before Lestrade could stop him.

…..

As soon as he opened the door to the flat, Sherlock threw his things down onto the two-seater. He felt a flurry of emotions cloud his mind. Anger, frustration, confusion. They were the main ones. There was one more that was slowly getting stronger. He was feeling guilty. Finally, he had what seemed to be a perfect lead, and it was a failure. He felt as if he'd failed John. The guilt was becoming stronger and stronger, and he stormed into his bedroom. A hesitant hand reached for the bedside drawer. Inside was a pile of syringes and a few vials. He'd acquired them as of late, and found they stopped him feeling these damned emotions long enough to think. Before even thinking, he'd taken one of the syringes out of the drawer and removed it of its packaging. For a moment he felt as if he shouldn't, but he still grabbed the vial and filed the syringe, not paying attention to the amount he was using. Whipping off his belt, he quickly fastened it around his bicep and tensed. The all too familiar pain of the needle entering his skin made him wince a little, letting the seemingly excessive amount of liquid run into his bloodstream. Once the needle ran dry, he removed it and the belt, and threw them down onto the floor.

Sherlock could already feel his mind numbing as the effects of the high began. For a moment it became easier to think with fewer feelings, and he used that short burst of time to try and figure out what else he could do with the only lead he had. He soon became aware of a throbbing in his head, which only grew stronger and more painful with time. Within ten minutes, it had become so unbearable that the detective was shouting out and clawing at his head to try and make it stop. Just when the pain had gotten to its worst, Sherlock blacked out.


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N: I'm so sorry this took so long! It's exam time again at school, and I've had not time to write. I've written a pretty long chapter to make up for it. More suspense too!**

**Chapter 6**

* * *

The first thing Sherlock could register was a dull ache that throbbed in his back and limbs. Opening his eyes, he realised he was lying on his bedroom floor. He figured he must have rolled off the bed during the high. It didn't worry him though. A few bruises on his back were nothing compared to how he felt mentally.

He decided to sit up onto his bed and try to challenge himself, just to warm up his mind. A loud ringing snapped him out of his mind palace. Sherlock dragged himself up off the bed and over to where he'd thrown his coat down. The display flashed with the words _Incoming Call – Lestrade_. With a sigh, he pressed the receive button and held the small device up to his ear. "Yes?" the detective growled.

"_Sherlock, you need to come down here. An officer brought in a set of twins," _Greg Lestrade informed.

"Why would that interest me in the slightest right now? You of all people know I have more important things to be dealing with!" Sherlock snapped.

"_I vaguely remember you were investigating a specific lead, were you not?"_Lestrade said almost sarcastically.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat. "Twenty minutes".

The detective hung up the phone and rushed to dress. As soon as he was finished, he pulled on his coat and hurried down the stairs. He had to stop at the bottom to regain his balance, the drugs not entirely out of his system just yet.

It seemed like forever before he could finally hail a cab. When one finally pulled over, Sherlock tumbled in before it even stopped. Within twenty minutes he was standing in Lestrade's office waiting for the all clear to question the suspects.

"So apparently, the two were seen shoplifting a pub downtown. They're identical twins, and they've got that weird eye thing," Lestrade explained.

"Sectoral Heterochromia," Sherlock corrected as a young man poked his head in the door to tell them that the suspects were ready. The pair made their way down to the interrogation room, Lestrade leading the way. They reached the doors and walked inside. He stood at the other side of the table, across from the two men. Within fifteen seconds he had deduced everything he needed to know from them.

"Both males of approximately twenty nine years of age, though you on the left appear to be older," he looked at the man sitting to the left of him.

"John Watson," Sherlock cut straight to the information he wanted to know the most.

Both men looked at him with confused expressions. "What," the younger one spat, his voice sounding rather soft for such a hard looking and foul tempered man. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Your names," he demanded. The older man looked up.

"Chace and Zack Stensten. I'm Chace, and he's Zack," The older one stammered. The older of the men seemed to have a soft temper.

Sherlock studied the two carefully. He focussed heavily on the eyes, trying to pinpoint any differences. Astoundingly, there was none. Both sets were exactly the same, and any difference certainly didn't show on the screen captures. Suddenly, the older man looked up at Sherlock, his face looking worried.

"Look, I don't know who you're looking for; all we did was nick some spirits from the pub. We can pay you back, I can right now," Chace stammered.

Lestrade leaned on the table. "Two hundred pounds worth? If you have the money, why go to the trouble of taking it?" he questioned.

Zach looked at the Detective Inspector. "Because I didn't want to pay for it, what do you think?" he said sarcastically. Sherlock stepped forward.

"I couldn't care less about the alcohol. I want to know why your names aren't on any of our systems," the Consulting Detective said firmly, his eyes locking on the younger man.

"Because we've just come over from Arabath, so of course we're not on your system," Zack rolled his eyes. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man.

"Yet only your brother has an accent. You however have a Northern English accent. I assume you originated in Northern England, or at least you did. Your brother has a thicker accent of a Scottish origin. So, you have grown up separately, but as of late, you have wanted to go back to your brother for some reason. My guess is that you were kicked out of home because of your anger i. Father, most likely. Upon moving back to Scotland, you had your records wiped, which is a suspicious act. Therefore, neither of you have records in England. Recently, you have both come to London," Sherlock was cut off by Chace, who was shocked.

"How did he know all of that? There's no way!" he exclaimed, visibly in awe.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Don't ask, it makes life so much easier".

Sherlock paced the room for a moment. His superior mind was working on full power, and he needed to make a decision. He had one plan, but it would require the possibility that it would put John in more danger. His heart hurt just thinking about that possibility, and for the first time he found himself scared of his deductions, although he knew it was the best thing to do. His face remained blank, even though he was going through an internal battle between his mind and his heart.

"Let the younger one go," he said, trying his hardest not to let his voice show the intense emotions he was feeling. Greg looked at him with a questioning expression.

"Let the younger one go, I said. In case you didn't hear me. It is obvious he was acting under his brother's influence. Fine him, though." Sherlock requested.

They got the men sorted out and Sherlock was waiting in Lestrade's office. Greg rubbed his temples and looked at Holmes.  
"What have you got planned?" he asked.

"It's complicated. I need you to ensure it goes properly. One of those men has John. I can't tell which though, so I have had to let one go to see. If I receive another video, I will know that is was the older man. If I don't, then we already have our man in custody," Sherlock informed.

Lestrade blinked a few times, looking directly at Sherlock. "Are you kidding? If we did let the real bastard go, then he'll probably kill John!"

Sherlock looked up. "I realise this. You don't think I haven't prepared for all outcomes?"

"Even if he's killed?" Lestrade said spitefully.

The detective stood up and walked out of the office, leaving Greg Lestrade to glare at him through the glass walls as he walked away.

Sherlock waited at his laptop for three hours. Beside him were a small stack of filled envelopes and some writing utensils. He had handwritten the messages for distribution in the event of John's death. He was waiting for a final video call to confirm his theory. He wholeheartedly hoped there wasn't another video, but it couldn't be certain.  
Usually, suspense was something Sherlock was accustomed to, and admittedly sometimes rather enjoyed. This time however, the suspense felt foreign and extremely unpleasant. Perhaps it was the possibility of his best friend being murdered. The thought made him shudder.

The Consulting Detective had since given up on trying to understand the recent intake of emotions he had been experiencing. It had altered his thought process, and quite frankly, caused him to doubt himself. He certainly did not need any form of self- doubt with the current case at hand. After John was safe he would take a long trip into his mind palace to work out what was causing it.  
_If John is safe,_the thought crept into his head. He sighed and shook it from his mind.

Looking beside him, he sighed at the empty syringes and one remaining vial. When he got home, he had injected himself with a small amount of the drug. Enough to make him think, he would have explained to John, if the doctor was there in the room. Though, if the Doctor was in the room with him, he wouldn't be using the drugs. He promised himself that he wouldn't overdose again. Not like he did last time anyway.

A sharp tone woke him from his thoughts. Another video call filled the laptop screen. John looked absolutely horrific. His tanned body was covered in deep lacerations, his face having copped the worst of them all. There was dried blood all over him, and it was obvious he had been shot again. His grey and red checked shirt had been removed to reveal more angry welts and slices. Sherlock looked closely and saw that John was only barely breathing. The sight made his gut wrench. The two kidnappers looked at him from behind John's chair. The smaller man looked at his assistant and patted John on the shoulder.

"He's been such a big help, hasn't he Doctor Watson? It's a shame we have to let him go!" the mechanical voice said into John's ear. He then pulled out a dirty revolver and shot the assistant square in the forehead. Blood and skull fragments flew everywhere, some landing on John, who didn't even flinch.

John Watson had resigned himself to the definite reality that he was going to die. He was going to die in a dark and filthy room without even telling Sherlock he loved him. _What a way to go,_ he thought. It took a tremendous effort to even think. His torturer had put him through more than he'd even experienced in the army. If you asked him, he'd tell you that it was his faith in Sherlock Holmes that kept him fighting back the bright light at the end of the tunnel.

"You've been a real trooper, Mister Holmes. Unfortunately, you still haven't figured it out. Tsk tsk! I'm afraid I'm getting a little bored just experimenting on your good doctor. He just doesn't respond. Now, I'm going to give you twenty four hours to find us. If you can't, I'm afraid I'll have to let Doctor Watson go, just like our old friend here! Good luck Mister Holmes,"

The captor cut a new gash deep into John's chest before shutting off the video feed. Sherlock stood and closed his laptop carefully. His face pulled back into an involuntary grin.

_Bingo. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Sherlock ran down the stairs of 221b Baker Street, past a worrying Mrs Hudson, and out onto the busy street. He hailed a cab, and once inside, pulled out his phone. It didn't take long to open the GPS and see the flashing orange symbol on the screen. For a moment, he wondered if he should call Lestrade, but that thought escaped him as the cabbie pulled up a few streets from the destination. Just what Sherlock wanted.

He didn't expect there to be any surveillance cameras set up. The area was tucked behind the industrial estate, in a run-down few blocks of abandoned warehouses. Sherlock scoffed at how typical the setting was. It didn't take him very long at all to find the correct warehouse, a smaller building that quite obviously looked as if it were recently inhabited. The steel door handle was free of dust in areas that it may be touched, a trait not present on any of the other doors.

Sherlock took some time to prepare himself for what he would encounter. He planned his movements carefully, and made a mental list of priorities.  
_First, apprehend and immobilise captor. Find John next._

He briefly wondered what state John would be in. Shaking that thought, he quietly entered the building. The door was surprisingly smooth to open. He slipped into the shadows and rested his hand on his hip. Beneath his coat, he could feel the reassuring shape of John's military issue handgun. He pulled it from the holster and gripped it tightly. There was a light on that was shining a soft light under one of the doors, and Sherlock moved to get closer. Pressing his ear up to the steel, he could hear talking. It was muffled, and rather hard to piece into a coherent sentence.

His brain working in overdrive, Sherlock pushed through the door and raised the weapon. The room was filthy, and there was a large patch of dried blood on the floor under the thick wooden chair that sat in the centre. In that chair, sat one beaten and broken, Doctor John H Watson. Sherlock forced himself to look away in time to see the captor's knife forcing its way into his arm.  
The detective drew in a quick breath as the smaller man dragged the knife across his skin, cutting a deep and messy gash into Sherlock's skin, through the coat. Sherlock kicked out and the man was sent flying to the ground.

A howl of pain escaped the grounded man, and he leapt for Sherlock, pulling the detective to the floor. The two men struggled, and Sherlock found his feet long enough to escape the man's grasp. He raised his hand to shoot, and was horrified to realise he had dropped it. The men both wrestled for it, and there was a loud bang. Sherlock leapt backwards, smiling. It wasn't until he felt the warm trickle of blood down his abdomen that he realised the bullet didn't hit his _enemy_. In a blind fury, he picked up a titanium pipe and lashed out violently. The criminal shot at Sherlock a few more times, hoping to finally be rid of the raging consulting detective. Two out of the five shots actually hit Sherlock, one lodging itself into his shoulder, and one into his hip.

There was a large crack as the bar hit the captor square on the jaw, sending him into a wall. Sherlock walked over to John and knelt down in front of him. The sight made his heart skip a few beats. Tears filled his eyes as John's opened. John was trying so hard to even breathe, and Sherlock reached out to touch John's tattered face. Sherlock suddenly became extremely angry, at himself, and also at the man lying against the wall. He limped over and pulled the bleeding man to his feet and dragged him in front of John. Dropping him down to the floor, Sherlock knelt down.

"_Look at what you've done! You filthy bastard! Do you see that? That's the dying face of an innocent man! You pathetic bastard, are you fucking happy?!" _Sherlock screamed, his baritone voice echoing through the room. He raised a fist and punched the man in the face. It was all so out of character for him to yell so ardently.

He continued punching and screaming until the adrenaline had worn off enough for the pain of his wounds to become apparent. Without a second thought, he stood agonizingly and limped towards John. Using the knife, he cut John free from his bonds and looked him in the eyes. There was one more thing he had to do. Pulling himself away from John, he found the live streaming program. He opened it up and sent a video link to Lestrade. The D.I. looked horrified when he opened the video.

"_Sherlock! Jesus Christ!"_

"Lestrade, I have John now. I'm sending you a text with the address. Send an ambulance for John. Do it QUICKLY. I have the captor in custody. It _was _the younger brother," Sherlock said. The adrenaline was still wearing off and he was feeling more and more pain.

"_How on earth did you find him? And Jesus! Sherlock, you're hurt too!" _ Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "It doesn't matter about me. John is priority. And I placed a chip on the brother as he was being led out. Put it in his coat pocket. It was small enough to go undetected. Just – _AHH_ – hurry up and get here!"

Sherlock shut off the link and crawled over to John's chair. He leaned against in and breathed heavily. He heard John groan. Sherlock lightly touched the wounds, a total of four across his body if you don't count the obvious bruising. He'd never been hurt like this before, and the pain was overwhelming. He couldn't imagine how John was feeling. Closing his eyes, he wondered if John hurt this much when he was shot in Afghanistan. Probably not, John was strong.

Sherlock slipped in and out of consciousness for half an hour. Neither him nor John heard the loud sirens of both police cars and ambulances. He could feel himself being put on a stretcher. He groggily protested, saying something along the lines of "Get John first".

Sherlock was completely unconscious by the time he reached the Ambulance.


	8. Chapter 8

**A.N: Just a short chapter for now! The next chapter will be extra long to make up for it! Thanks for being so patient! **

**Chapter 8**

The sound of high pitched beeping was the first thing Sherlock heard when he awoke. It took a great deal of effort to open his eyes, and when he did, the bright overhead light nearly blinded him. It didn't take much deducing for him to realise he was in a hospital bed. A loud groan escaped his mouth as he tried to sit up. Pain flared up and he dropped back down to the bed.

It wasn't the first time Sherlock had been in hospital. He'd been a few times for broken bones as a child, and been admitted after his first overdose. A passing nurse heard the cry and walked into the room.

"Mister Holmes is everything alright?" she said sweetly. Sherlock could just make out the woman's dark face.

"Mhhhn, John…" he tried to ask about John. If he said he wasn't seriously concerned about John, he would be lying through his teeth. The nurse checked his chart and wrote down some readings off the bulky equipment he was hooked up to.

"Doctor Watson is in the bed beside you. He's just come out of surgery. He'll be going back tomorrow, there's still some more they need to finish," The nurse replied, sounding rather serious.

Sherlock became a little more concerned. "He's okay?" He questioned, "John's okay?".

The nurse put the chart down. She looked at Sherlock. "Doctor Watson's been through a pretty tough ordeal. He's not completely okay. He's alive and stable, but there's still some damage that is concerning the doctors. They may have to remove one of his legs from above the knee".

Sherlock's breath hitched, and his heart rate went up. He couldn't imagine the mental torment John would go through if he ended up becoming an amputee. John lived for danger.

The nurse seemed to remember something, and she looked at Sherlock, her face turning from reassuring to grateful. Sherlock wondered for a moment what she was thinking.

"Mister Holmes, I know this might be an appropriate time, but I wanted to thank you. I don't know if you remember, but last year you caught the man who killed my husband and son. If it means anything now, I'll personally make sure that you and Doctor Watson are cared for as top priority. If you need anything, call for me, okay?" The nurse was about to turn when Sherlock reached out a weak hand.

"Can you help me into a chair beside John?" he asked. The nurse looked apologetic and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but the surgeons have strictly instructed that you stay in bed until you're strong enough. I'll make you a deal though, if you're feeling better tomorrow, I'll help you," the woman smiled, her dark brown braids shifted off her shoulder, and the carved wooden beads clicked together loudly. Sherlock nodded. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he felt terrible.

Greg Lestrade swept into the room just as the nurse was leaving, almost knocking the attractive woman over. Apologising, the D.I. walked over to Sherlock's bed. He slumped down into the cushiony chair beside the bed and just shook his head.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock, you bloody did it. I don't know how, but you did," Lestrade let out a chuckle of disbelief. "And to think I almost doubted you for a moment".

Sherlock looked up, "You doubted me? Oh, don't ever do that you know I'm always right".

Lestrade laughed a bit. "Right, yeah, a right git sometimes," he joked. His smile dropped when he looked over at John, who was lying unconscious in his bed. Sherlock looked away.

"So you've heard?" Lestrade asked quietly. Sherlock nodded. Greg looked reassuring. "It's only a possibility, Sherlock. In all my years, I've seen men with worse that recover without having anything removed. It'll be all right," He tried to be as reassuring as he could.

Sherlock scoffed. Deep down he knew that what Greg was saying was true. That it was only a possibility. But there was a part of him that was overly worried.

"Well, I best be going. Only stopped in to make sure you're both okay. I think your brother wants to see you, but I've told him to leave you be for a few days. Y'know, recovering in peace and whatnot. It's good to see you both," Greg stood and made his way to the door. Sherlock gave a small wave.

It was already quite late, and he decided that he may as well sleep. _Normal humans heal faster during sleep, _he thought. Even though his body was just transport for his mind, Sherlock knew that he needed to show the doctors he was stronger if he wanted to talk to John. Reluctantly, he shuffled a bit to be more comfortable. The inability to curl into a tight ball was irritating and uncomfortable, and after a few attempts, he finally gave up. Spread out on the small and confining hospital bed, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. It was hard, his concern for John and the pain of his injuries stopping him from sleep. Opening his eyes, he saw that the nurses had given him a morphine button in case the pain got too bad. Reaching out, he pressed it twice, feeling the double dose flow into his arm. It didn't take long before the effects kicked in, and Sherlock was sound asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**A.N: Apologies, apologies! I'm dreadfully sorry this took so long to write! Oh, and I'm also sorry for the lack of good quality writing! Here's a bit of fluff to keep you going until I can actually get good at writing! :)**

Chapter 9

John was still in surgery when Sherlock awoke. The surgeons flitted around the operating table, performing their tasks with practised precision. Mycroft had made sure that John had the best of London's surgeons working on him. He'd phoned the hospital to talk to his brother, and was promptly redirected to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The man explained that Sherlock and John were to have no visitors until they were well enough. A decision which Greg made on his own to avoid an antsy Consulting Detective insulting every person who had the nerve to actually visit him. Mycroft was surprised that his smooth, manipulative tricks didn't work on the stern gentleman on the other end of the phone. He made a note to meet this man in the future.

It took several attempts, but Sherlock was finally able to sit relatively upright in his bed. His shoulder and stomach wounds throbbed in a painful rhythm; his hip wound slowly becoming excruciating as he stretched his legs out properly. Looking to his right, he noticed that John was gone. He sighed, realising that the surgery must have been scheduled for mid-morning. His heart dropped when he realised that John could possibly be losing his leg today, a possibility that he really didn't want to think about. He tried to make a few deductions when staff or visitors walked by. In a space of half an hour, he'd deduced three unhappy marriages, a nurse that owned a few too many cats, a plastic surgery addict and a nurse that had a habit of stealing stationery. The rest simply bored him too much to notice. Deducing the room was the next step. He picked apart details to keep himself occupied.

_Two beds, but the room holds three. The third bed was removed recently. The room is clean, except for a recent juice stain on the linoleum. Colour indicates a child's drink. Dirt tracks on the floor, nine different shoe prints. Three are nurses, four doctors, Lestrade. The last set leads to John's bed only. Females shoes, obviously heeled. Possibly a girlfriend. Yes, definitely a girlfriend. The woman from the clinic._

Sherlock stopped at the idea of John's girlfriend coming to visit him. He found himself becoming slightly jealous. Not at the idea of having a girlfriend visit though. He couldn't put words to it. With that, his nurse entered the room. She looked the same as she did yesterday; respectable uniform, black shoes, hair in a fountain of tiny braids and a touch of silver eye shadow on her dark eyes.

"Mister Holmes, you're looking better, yeah?" she smiled. Sherlock caught sight of her name badge for the first time.

"Miss Archer. When will John be out of surgery?" Sherlock asked. The nurse smiled. Sherlock deduced that the smile was genuine, and not constructed to cover any bad news that might be lingering.

"Call me Karen and He'll be back within the hour. When he's in and settled, I'll help you into that chair over there okay love?" She said, pressing a few buttons on the monitors.

"Yes, thank you. Who came to visit John this morning?" Sherlock asked. The nurse chuckled a little.

"You were sound asleep. Her name was Harriet, I'm pretty certain. She came in with the Detective Inspector; she was here until John left. Charming girl, she was. She said to say thank you to you for finding John. Well, I'll just check your temperature and I'll be off. John will be back any minute now. I've been told you don't eat much, but if you want I can bring up some tea and toast?" She placed Sherlock's chart on the end of the bed, and picked up a thermometer. Sherlock turned his head slightly so Kern could do her job, which she completed quite efficiently.

"Just some tea, thank you Karen," he replied as the woman walked out. Sherlock used his manners with this woman. She obviously wanted to help, and was certainly not incompetent. He hoped that John had a nurse that was as careful and polite. Sherlock sighed out loud. He'd gotten his deductions wrong. Harry Watson was the ninth set of footprints. Lestrade must have let her in to see her brother. _There's always something,_ he thought.

With that thought, a bed was wheeled into the room. Sherlock shot up into a full sitting position, hissing with pain as his wounds disagreed with the motion. Sherlock held his breath as two men attached John to the life support system. A third stood and wrote in John's chart. There was a large chair blocking the view of John's legs. Any movement Sherlock made to see around it was cut short by excruciating pain. The three men eventually left the room, smiling at Sherlock as they walked out.

Sherlock knew John was unconscious. He would be for a while. "Got your tea, love," a familiar voice echoed as Karen Archer entered the room again. She smiled a knowing smile, and placed the tea down on a tray over beside John. Walking over to Sherlock, she lowered the bed a little, and held out her arms.

"It's going to hurt, so try not to shout, okay?" she instructed, helping the tall man to stand upright. The consulting detective breathed in sharply a few times. He ignored the pain as best he could. Step by excruciating step, they finally made it over to the chair on John's side. Sherlock sat down, and Karen pushed the chair closer to John, surprised that such a tall man could weigh so little. Sherlock let his eyes trail down John's legs, down to his knees. The blankets were too thick to be able to tell.

Karen patted Sherlock on the shoulder and left the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

John looked so peaceful. His eyes were shut and his breathing was even. Sherlock reached a shaking hand out and touched John's leg. He let out a silent sob when he found that John had in fact kept the leg. He smiled wide. The dark haired man watched John for a while. He realised that he still had his hand on John's leg. He also realised that he didn't care. A warm feeling filled Sherlock's chest, and he forgot about the horrendous throbbing in his own body. He reached his hand up and moved it from John's leg to his face, and then down to his hand. He kept his hand on John's, feeling the soft pulse. Leaning forward, Sherlock rested his head on John's bed and closed his eyes. He didn't even realise he'd fallen asleep.

When he awoke, he lifted his head to find a pair of soft brown eyes looking at him. John smiled, and Sherlock sat up straight. He noticed that his hands had tightened slightly around John's in his sleep. He let go and regained his composure. John laughed.

"Well, we're a right mess aren't we?" he joked, his voice rough and damaged. Sherlock smiled. John raised an eyebrow at his friend.

"Well, what are you doing in here then?" he questioned. Sherlock looked down. He suddenly felt quite silly in his ridiculous hospital gown. He missed the finely tailored suits and heavy coat.

"Stabbed and shot. Oh, and I was punched in the face. Try not to get kidnapped again, it was most inconvenient," Sherlock brushed off his own injuries. They weren't important to him anyway. John rolled his eyes.

"You're the one who drove me out of the flat, you sod!" he laughed. Sherlock laughed with him, and it reminded him of how they laughed together in Buckingham Palace on the first day of the Irene Adler case.

"Harry visited this morning," Sherlock informed. John's laughter died out and he sighed.

"How'd she find out?" he asked.

"Lestrade was with her, so I assume he called her," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. John smirked.

"Pity she's not still here, we could invite Mycroft and have a family get together," John laughed again.

"Leave your girlfriend. She hasn't shown up to visit you. If Harry was let in, she would have been too," Sherlock said, with a completely casual manner.

There was a silence between them. John looked out of the large window while Sherlock looked at John. Rain began to patter on the window, and the view of London became distorted by the water on the glass. Sherlock reached for his tea and took a sip, only to realise it had gone cold. John was thinking. There was a battle going on inside his head. Tell the truth to his friend, or keep it a secret.

What would Sherlock say if he knew that the Army Doctor had feelings for him? He felt ridiculous. It was so childish to be so infatuated with somebody. But then, Sherlock most likely wouldn't care.

"I lied," John almost whispered, without even meaning to. Well, he'd have to explain now.

"About what?" Sherlock gave his full attention to John.

"I lied about the girlfriend," He confessed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Why on earth did you do that?" the detective questioned.

"Cause you were being a dick about it. Trying to deduce me like I'm some kind of suspect," John huffed.

Sherlock looked away for a moment, and then looked back. "You do fancy someone though, it's obvious," he said. John blushed.

"Yeah, I guess, if you _must_ know," John answered quietly. Without hesitation, Sherlock leaned forward. Pushing aside the searing pain in his slim body, he pressed a quick kiss to John's bruised lips. He hissed, and put his good arm down on the bed to stabilise him. His face hovered a few inches above John's red face.

John had no words to describe what he felt. He finally mustered up the courage to speak.  
"What- What was that for?" he stammered quietly.

Sherlock's eyes grew a touch wider when he realised everything. The sadness and fear and anger he'd been feeling all made sense. Molly was right; Sherlock did care for John, but in a way that Sherlock didn't understand until now. All of the times his heart hurt and his eyes watered when he watched the videos. Sherlock didn't even realise what it all was. He felt so stupid for being so ridiculously oblivious.

"I think, that I love you, John," He said almost inaudibly. John's heart rate went up, and the machine beeped a few times to alert them. Neither of them heard it, though.

"That's the best news anybody could wake up to," John said. He brought his hand slowly up to his friend's shoulder and pulled him in for another kiss. This time it was slightly longer, and Sherlock's legs almost gave out from beneath him. John pulled away and smiled.

"You'd better get back to your bed. You're not going to heal any time soon if you keep trying to move around. Go on, back to bed," John laughed. He thought it was all a little clichéd, but Sherlock was always dramatic about everything, even when he was covered in bullet holes. Sherlock pressed the buzzer on the wall and minutes later, Karen opened the door with a smile.

"Karen, could you help me back to my bed," Sherlock asked politely. John was surprised in Sherlock's demeanour. Mostly that he wasn't giving her sass or calling her an idiot of anything. John thought she looked rather familiar, to be honest. She seemed nice enough.

"Doctor Watson, good to see you're okay," Karen smiled, supporting Sherlock's weight as he walked to his own bed. John smiled back.

"Thanks," John said, and he heard Sherlock grunt in pain. The nurse finished sorting Sherlock out and stood between the two.

"You both should get some sleep, Sherlock; we'll change your dressings tomorrow okay? See you both tomorrow, goodnight," she walked out again and closed the door.

John laughed quietly to himself. Sherlock heard and looked over at his friend. "What?" he exclaimed in confusion.

"Nothing, now you heard the nurse, get some sleep," John instructed, chuckling.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Goodnight, John," he said, loud enough for John to hear.

"Goodnight Sherlock," the ex-army doctor replied.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

John was the first to wake in the morning. Well, if you can call one thirty p.m. 'morning'. He looked over to see if Sherlock was awake. The super sleuth was curled up in his bed sleeping away. John watched as one particular curl bounced when Sherlock exhaled through slightly pouted lips. He turned to look out of the window. The sky was still very dark, and the occasional thunder clap or lighting show would keep him entertained.

An itching sensation filled his leg, and all he wanted to do was get up and walk around. He could only move his arms a short way, and his legs weren't much better. He was beat up pretty bad. His wounds from Afghanistan seemed like a mere paper cut now. Nearly every inch of his battered body was covered in deep cuts, each just as infected as the last. The daily administration of bleach on the wounds had taken its toll on John's skin, leaving it completely riddled with horrific sores. He'd been shot in the leg, and the familiarity of the bullet wound was a bit upsetting. He ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks, wincing as he came across the burned flesh of the few puncture holes.

The doctors had already said that they were surprised with the fact that he was awake already. John was resilient though, with the strength to stay alive through the whole event. Even when he'd thought it was the end, he stayed strong. And just because he was awake, didn't mean he wasn't in pain. Bandages covered him from head to toe, leaving hardly any skin bare. The live streams weren't the only times he was actively tortured. What Sherlock saw wasn't even half of his regular beatings. He didn't even want to look into a mirror because he knew that his face would be bad.

Their door opened, and Karen walked in with her usual smile. She had taken her hair out of the tiny braids and now had it flowing in waves down below her shoulders.

"Doctor Watson, you're up! That's good to see, so now I don't have to wake you up myself," she laughed. John said good morning and smiled back to the nurse.

"I just have to wake up Mister Holmes," Karen said, and tried to rouse Sherlock from his slumber, to no avail. She'd called out to him and shook him gently, all with the same result.

"Mister Holmes, you have to wake up! We need to change your bandages!" she said, tutting at how difficult he was to awake. John laughed and looked over at the two. He'd had an idea.

"Sherlock, Lestrade just called! There's been a triple murder and apparently it's a tricky one, too!" John shouted as loud as his raspy voice would allow. Sherlock shot up in to a sitting position, almost knocking over the IV. He spoke in a garbled voice saying something indecipherable along the lines of "get your coat John," and groaned loudly in pain.

"Ah, Mister Holmes, it's good to see you're awake! We've got to change your bandages and see if we can get you to the shower," Karen informed in her usual friendly demeanour. A trolley full of dressings was already set up beside Sherlock's bed. The detective looked over at his companion with tired eyes.

"You liar!" he accused. John just laughed hoarsely. Sherlock sat on his bed as the nurse untied and removed Sherlock's hospital gown. The thick blankets covered the detective's hips and legs, and John wondered for a moment if the detective was wearing any pants. It would be a pretty typical thing to ask, considering it was a fight just to get him to put on any clothing in Buckingham Palace. Karen removed layers of bandaging from Sherlock's stomach, shoulder and bicep, revealing large patches of thick dressings. There were red patches on the stomach dressing, probably because he kept trying to sit up so fast. One by one the soiled gauzes were disposed of, and the injury beneath it was cleaned and covered again.

Sherlock winced when the anaesthetic touched the tender skin. Each wound was cleaned and redressed in nearly record time. Soon, all but one was finished. Karen took out some fresh gauze and a large waterproof plastic sticker. She helped Sherlock stand and John noticed that Sherlock was wearing pants. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Sherlock in his underwear, and he just shrugged and continued staring out of the window. Karen handed the supplies to Sherlock.

"You can fix up the hip yourself in the bathroom. The bandages are all waterproof, so as soon as you get your hip sorted out, you can go for a shower. Right, you're all good then, if you need any help just press the button on the wall," Karen helped Sherlock walk over to the bathroom and left the room as the bathroom door shut.

John stayed in his place, looking out of the window. He was completely lost in thought. For some odd reason, he was wondering about Harriet. Why on earth would Harry want to visit him? They rarely kept in touch about anything. He didn't even notice the woman walk in and sit down beside him.

"Mister Watson?" she said. John turned his head and acknowledged her.

"Ahh, _Doctor_ Watson, yes hello," he corrected. Looking over the woman, he made a few lazy deductions of his own. She had bleached blonde hair and wore more mascara than needed as well. The way she was dressed and the notebook she was cradling told John that she was certainly not a doctor. She also wore rather impractical shoes, so she obviously didn't do much walking in her job. That was all he could pick up on before she spoke again.

"My name is Madeline Smith; you were referred to me as a client. I'm a psychologist here at St. Barts. I understand you've been through an extremely tough situation? Would you like to talk about it?" the woman opened her notebook and took a pen off her lanyard. John sighed.

"Who referred me?" John asked back as Sherlock quietly emerged from the bathroom in his towel and made his way back to his bed. John looked away from his flatmate, who didn't bother pulling the curtain closed to take off his towel and pull on a pair of underpants.

"I'm afraid I can't say. Now, how are you feeling?" the psychologist asked again. John tutted.

"Well, I've been kidnapped, shot and put through a few days worthy of a _Saw_ film. Honestly, I don't feel all that bad. A lot of morphine in my system seems to be helping a bit," he answered. The woman wrote in her notebook.

"How do you feel mentally? Are you experiencing any kind of stress?" she asked in an almost monotonous tone.

"Nope, I feel fine up here. There's no way I have any kind of mental illness," John replied, trying not to sound sarcastic. The woman wrote more in her book.

"Now, one of the first stages of having any form of psychological condition is the denial of actually having one. It's a likely possibility that you are in denial at the moment, especially after your experience," The false concern made John roll his eyes a bit.

"Wrong," a baritone voice piped up. John smiled, and the uptight woman ignored the interruption.

"Now, ahem, how did it feel being in the situation? Do you remember any of your thoughts?" she asked, and John began to grow a touch impatient.

"Well, I can't really remember what I was thinking, considering I was too busy getting sponge baths in bleach and getting a few new piercings," he replied sarcastically, gesturing at his face.

John could have sworn he'd heard a deep chuckle from the other bed. That was enough to make him smile, while the psychologist wrote down some more 'findings'.

The woman tutted, and looked at John. "It seems you've got post-traumatic stress. Your experience has had an effect on the way you're thinking, and you're using humour to mask it, I'll get your doctor to write up a prescription for anxiety medication and…" she was cut off by the same baritone voice.

"Wrong!" Sherlock announced, much louder this time. The woman turned in her chair to face the detective, who was watching the ceiling nonchalantly.

"Excuse me, but I'm trying to discuss something with my patient. Could you please stop interrupting," She demanded as politely as she could muster.

"Perhaps when you make a diagnosis that is even remotely correct, _then_ I will be quiet," Sherlock didn't even look over at the woman.

The psychologist narrowed her eyes. "I'll have you know that I have a proper degree in psychology," she retaliated.

"Ooh, and somehow I'm _obviously _still more qualified," Sherlock looked at her with a sarcastic smile. John couldn't help but laugh silently behind her. Usually John would be telling Sherlock off for being an obnoxious sod, but John honestly had to agree with the Consulting Detective.

"I have diagnosed my patient, and I would appreciate it if you stay out of the matter," she spat. Sherlock laughed quietly and sarcastically.

"Oh please, John Watson with PTSD? If John was really at risk of that, he wouldn't be following me on my cases," Sherlock said, glancing over at his friend and seeing the huge smile on his face.

The woman looked at John, who shrugged. "When you're living with him, the chance of getting killed on a daily basis is something you sort of grow used to. I thought I was going to die, and I didn't. And I'm happy," he explained, "I don't need a therapist, or a councillor or anything like that. I just need a nice cuppa".

Sherlock smiled wide, and the psychologist closed her notebook and stood. "Well, it's good to hear that you're fine. Good afternoon Mister Watson," she said, and exited the room.

John sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. He disliked psychologists. He wasn't too thrilled with his first one. Who would even refer him? Probably Harry. "Thanks," he spoke loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

"You're looking better," Sherlock replied, and John shrugged. Sherlock knew it would be the best part of eight to ten months before John was completely well again. Sherlock would be discharged from the hospital much, much earlier than John. As soon as the bones in his shoulder and the damage to his kidney were healed, he would be allowed back home. The thought of having to go back home while John was still in hospital made him upset, and he tried not to think about it too much. He put his head back, exhaled loudly and closed his eyes, and tried to think of something else.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Lestrade marched down the dull corridors and entered room 14C. The red-headed nurse that was waiting for him sighed and left the room. The Detective Inspector turned to face the bed closest to him and frowned. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the bed, fully clothed and looking better than when Greg had seen him last.

It had been nearly three months since the pair were hospitalised, and the doctors were extremely surprised with how well Sherlock was healing, much faster than what was considered average. John was still in a very bad way. Some of his bruises had gone down, and the charred flesh in his face was completely healed. All of the minor cuts and gashes had healed well. That was the extent of his curing though. Over the last two months, he had been newly diagnosed with serious bleach poisoning, and had required multiple blood transfusions to try and treat the illness. Sherlock was in a terrible way during those weeks. He wouldn't eat or sleep or talk to anybody that wasn't Karen Archer or John himself.

Greg tutted loudly and approached the sulking detective. "You _have_ to go home Sherlock. You're well enough. John will be fine, you can come up and visit him," he lectured.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "I don't _have_ to go anywhere!" he spat, curling himself up tighter. The wound in his hip pinched a little, but Sherlock was so very used to it. In reality, he knew he needed to go home and give up his bed for somebody who was much sicker than he was.

Greg huffed and sat down on the end of the bed. "Sherlock," he began is his almost fatherly _stop-being-so-immature_ voice that he used so often when talking to Sherlock. He was cut off but a quick burst of baritone.

"Phone," Sherlock demanded. He held out his hand and Greg handed over his phone with a raised eyebrow. "I want John in his own room if I _must _be discharged," the detective stated bluntly. Greg rolled his eyes.

Sherlock stopped typing for a second and raised his own eyebrow at Greg, who responded with a confused "what?"

"You have Mycroft in your recently used contacts. Why?" The tall man questioned.

"I've had all calls for you redirected to my phone, and he's been trying to ring you every few weeks," Lestrade explained. Sherlock raised his eyebrow a little further, and then looked back at the phone, typing away.

"He's probably trying to get me to talk to Mummy. There's no doubt she's heard," Sherlock deduced absentmindedly. Handing back the phone, he stood from the bed and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Somehow, he still looked just as elegant as always. Both of them looked at John, and Lestrade cleared his throat.

"I'll fill out the paperwork, if you want to, err, say goodbye?" he offered, and walked out of the room. Sherlock walked over and rested his hand on John's. He whispered goodbye and promised to visit as often as he possibly could. Leaning in, he gave the sleeping man a quick and gentle kiss on the forehead. He turned and walked out of the room to sign his remaining paperwork. Lestrade and Sherlock walked out to the front of the hospital where a car was waiting.

The ride to Baker Street was done in silence. Neither of the men had much to say, if anything at all. Greg took the opportunity to pull out his phone and send a few messages. Curiosity got the better of him and he opened up the message that Sherlock had sent to Mycroft.

_'Have John moved to his own room. Put him in full care of Nurse Archer. Have her properly paid. Tell Mummy I am fine. Please stop bothering my friend. –SH'_

Greg read through the message twice. He didn't know whether or not the last part of the message was sarcastic or not.

"I meant it," Sherlock broke the silence. Greg blinked a few times.

Sherlock sighed. "Thank you," he confidently said. Greg was a bit speechless, but did his best not to show it.

"Ah, you're welcome," he said, confused. Sherlock knew he would read the message. The car stopped and the two men got out. Lestrade had parked his own car in front of the Café, and gave Sherlock a curt nod goodbye before getting in and driving off. The Consulting Detective turned to face the driver of the private car.

"What has Mycroft got you doing for the rest of today?" he questioned in his deep, authorative voice.

"Anything you ask of me, sir," the man replied with absolute courtesy. Sherlock smiled.

"Come back in an hour, I don't care what you do before then," Sherlock turned and walked up to the flat.

Nothing had changed since he bolted out of the door nearly three months ago. He didn't bother being sentimental about it. There was a slightly foul stench coming from the kitchen, but Sherlock couldn't care less for it. The laptop had long since died, and there was still a syringe sitting on the table beside a stack of letters. Sherlock picked up the stack and flicked through the letters. With a heavy sigh, he threw them in the dustbin. Swiftly, he strode into his bedroom and started packing a suitcase with three days' worth of clothing and toiletries.

As a last minute decision, he walked up to John's bedroom and opened his drawer. A number of neatly folded jumpers sat untouched in the wooden case, and Sherlock picked out one that he thought John wouldn't miss too much. It was a navy blue and black striped piece, which was obviously much too big for John. Sherlock wondered why he'd kept it, but figured it was probably sentiment. He folded it back up and walked downstairs, placing the soft article into his suitcase. He reached to grab his coat from the sofa, but realised it had most likely not been washed, and he would have to cope without it, just like he would have to cope without John for a while. After grabbing the last of his essentials, he made his way down to the front door, where he saw the car waiting for him. The driver placed the suitcase in the boot and returned to the driver's seat.

"I hope you don't mind, but we have a long drive ahead of us," Sherlock informed, handing a small card over to the young man, who took one look at the card and nodded.

Sherlock suddenly felt a wash of fatigue fall over him, and figured that it wouldn't do that much harm to close his eyes and drift off to sleep for a while.

"Mister Holmes, we're here," the driver said loudly, waking the detective from his slumber. Sherlock stepped out of the car and retrieved his suitcase. He thanked the driver, and walked through the large gates. A man and a woman stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock walked right up, let go of his suitcase and took the woman's hand.

"Hello, Mummy".


	12. Chapter 12

**A.N: For some reason, I like the idea of how the character of "Mummy Holmes" could be portrayed. We don't get a good enough insight into what she's like. So that's part of the reason I've introduced a bit of her into the story, just to play around with this unfamiliar character. Hope you enjoy an extra-long chapter to compensate for the amount of time it will take for me to write the next chapter and my terrible literary quality!**

Chapter 12

John knew that Sherlock had been discharged.

It was obvious the moment he woke up in a different room. It was much nicer than the other room, and definitely the nicest he'd ever been in. After about an hour of sitting alone in his room, boredom crept up and he found himself fidgeting and itching to get up and walk around. Occasionally, he would try to sit straight up, but eventually decided it was all in vain. At that point, Karen had entered the room to check up on him. She was the first person he'd seen since he woke up.

"How are you, Doctor Watson?" she smiled warmly.

"A bit bored, to be honest. Why did I change rooms?" John asked. The previous room was comfortable enough for him.

Karen smiled again, pulling the clipboard out of the tray at the end of John's bed. "Mister Holmes arranged for you to have this room after his brother went home. You're very lucky; this is usually the room that we use for high-profile patients, y'know, like celebrities, businessmen, the royals – that sort of thing. Mister Holmes insisted that you were given complete attention. Unfortunately, you're stuck with me until you're discharged," she joked, writing down the readings from the various beeping machines.

John laughed, "Rather be stuck with you than some of these others. Can't even spare a second to look us in the eye!" he laughed. Karen giggled as well.

"Mister Holmes won't be able to visit for a few days. Detective Inspector Lestrade will be up tomorrow to visit," Karen informed. John frowned a little.

"Has he been grounded?" he asked light-heartedly to cover up his disappointment.

"He's gone on an important business trip for a few days," she replied, and then smiled, "Looking at your charts, you're definitely getting much better. I'll take a look under the bandages and we'll see about changing your physiotherapy appointments to an earlier date".

John smiled wide. In his head he was thanking the Holmes boys for leaving him in such caring hands. "That would be absolutely fantastic, thank you so much," he exclaimed with audible appreciation. Karen excused herself and left the room for a moment, returning quickly with a stainless steel trolley. She parked it up against the bed and pulled back John's blanket.

She opened the drawer of the trolley and pulled out a pair of scissors and a dish. Cutting carefully through the thick bandage that shielded his calf, Karen finally exposed the horrific bullet wound to the open air. John winced as the gauze pad was peeled off. Karen took a good look at it, feeling around the area for any new swelling or infection.

"Healing nicely, the swelling is going down well, and it's definitely closing up beneath the stitches. How does it feel?" Karen queried, retrieving a bottle of strong antiseptic and a gauze pad.

"Can't really feel it at all, for the most part, sometimes it itches though. That's the worst one I'm pretty sure," John answered, drawing in a sharp breath as the burn of the antiseptic started. Karen wrapped the wound in a fresh bandage and started unwrapping other wounds to check on.

The two had a friendly conversation whilst Karen finished cleaning and bandaging the last of John's leg wounds. She moved to clean the torso injuries.

"So, you and Mister Holmes?" she asked, coating a particularly nasty gash in antiseptic, "Are you two like friends, co-workers, boyfriends? If you don't mind me asking, that is".

John looked at her. "You could say we're co-workers, and friends I guess. It's a bit complicated after that".

Karen grinned, "I reckon you're more than that. He was always asking about you, kept saying that he didn't need help and just to keep you healthy. Getting him to actually go back home was a challenge and a half; he flat out refused to leave you. I think he wants to be more than friends".

John blushed at that, and Karen giggled. "Y'know, part of me really hopes you're right, but nobody really knows what's going on in his head. I'm probably deluding myself," John said quietly.

"Listen, it's obvious you fancy him, why not say so? I'm willing to bet my right arm that he fancies you too. Sherlock is incredibly intelligent, so don't be vague," Karen replied encouragingly, still working on John's torso and arms.

John smiled slightly, "I wouldn't get five words into the confession and he'd have me deduced to the bone. We kissed that first time he sat by my bed. I'm not thinking much of it because of how much morphine he had in his system at the time. He was delusional," he said sadly.

"Then don't give him time to deduce you! Just come straight out and assert yourself. Don't let him figure it out. Somebody like that would respect a little authority every once in a while. It's so painfully obvious that you two can't live without each other. Life's short, John," Karen looked him in the eye. John knew she was right. He nodded and smiled gratefully.

"Thanks a heap, really. And thanks for not getting uncomfortable with it," John was really grateful for the advice and the kindness shown to him.

"I'm really happy to help. And you're nearly well enough for proper physiotherapy. I'll see if I can change your appointments now," Karen stood and pulled out her hands free. She dialled a short number and waited a moment. John couldn't help but smile.

Everything in the room was in exactly the same place as he'd left it when he moved out, like it had been sealed in time. There was no dust, which led Sherlock to believe it was tidied often. Sherlock walked around the room, taking in the look of his childhood bedroom. He touched the various items on the bookshelf that used to mean so much to him. Things like his first microscope and his collection of novels. Running his eyes over the titles, he noticed an old looking stuffed bear. He pulled it from the shelf and looked it over, remembering how that bear served as his best friend during his younger years.

"Alexander," he whispered softly, lightly touching the patches he had stitched onto the animal when he was five years old. He smirked, and carried the bear to his writing desk, where he set it down in a sitting position. Nothing else in the room really interested him much. Looking at the desk, he suddenly remembered something.

Sherlock walked briskly to the tall wardrobe that housed his old toys and other playthings. There was a foldable step ladder hidden behind it, and it didn't take anywhere near as much effort to retrieve it as it used to. Opening the ladder, he marched up to the second step and looked at the top of the wardrobe. He was much taller than he used to be, and remembered how as a child, he had to be on his tiptoes on the top step to reach. There was still a metal ruler on top of the wardrobe, and he placed it into a split in the thick wood. With a small push, he managed to separate the splits enough to reach in and retrieve the thin brass key from inside the split. He pocketed the key and returned everything to its spot.

With a small smile, he strode over to the large chest at the foot of his bed. Pushing it aside a few feet, he saw the small trap door in the wooden floor. He used the key to open the lock, and opened it up. Inside, untouched, was a large notebook. He took it out, closed the trapdoor and moved the chest back. The leather-bound book was heavy in his hands, and he grinned from ear to ear.

"Holing yourself up in your room? You haven't changed in the slightest," Mycroft chuckled from the doorway.

"I was just looking around. My Casebook is still here," Sherlock replied, holding the book up for his brother to see.

Mycroft smiled. "Getting a little sentimental, are we? I remember making that hiding place for you. You were five. I can remember you even calling me the '_best brother in the world'_," he watched Sherlock grimace a little. "Mummy wants to see you, in the study. You best talk to her; it might be a while before you ever do again. I'll leave you be," he informed, walking off down the hall.  
Sherlock carefully put the casebook into his suitcase and went off to his mother's study. He found her sitting in her chair by the fireplace, sipping on her usual cup of Lady Grey.

"Mummy?" he called quietly. His mother gestured for him to sit down with her, which he did.

Violet Holmes smiled sweetly at her son. Even in her age, she was still very beautiful. Sherlock smiled at his mother. Despite caring being a disadvantage in his eyes, he had always cared for his mother.

"Mycroft told me what happened. Tell me it's not as bad as he says," she almost pleaded. Sherlock sighed.

"Well, knowing Mycroft, it is probably worse than what he told you. But it's okay. I'm okay. Really, you don't need to worry about me," Sherlock tried to reassure his mother.

Violet sighed and looked down at her tea. "You're the one that worries me most, you know? We both know that Mycroft wouldn't work a day in the field to save his life. You've always been the opposite," she reminisced.

Sherlock sat forward, "There's nothing to worry _about_. I'm much cleverer than those people with their funny little _normal_ brains!"

"Then why were you in _hospital_? It was somebody else, wasn't it? You got hurt because of somebody else. I can see it in your eyes. What on earth made you want to put yourself in harm's way for another person?" Violet raised her eyebrow.

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. Violet's eyes widened, "It was _love_, wasn't it? You're in love. Your eyes say it all. You're thinking about the girl, your pupils have dilated. I may be old, Sherlock, but don't think you can put anything past me".

Sherlock frowned. "It wasn't _love. _That's preposterous. I was saving a friend from being held prisoner and tortured. I owed it to him, considering it was my fault he was kidnapped in the first place. And he's not just a person. He's by far more intelligent than anyone else I've come across. A brilliant conductor of light, and besides, he saved my life once," Sherlock's heart skipped a bit. He knew he fancied John. It wasn't something he wanted to admit to Mummy Holmes just yet.

Violet, however, had already realised. Sherlock Holmes had never spoken such compliments about anybody. She leaned forward and placed her hand on her son's.

"It's okay dear; I wasn't incriminating you or them. I know that you fancy someone. I'm certain," she smiled.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "And what makes you so sure?" he questioned.

Violet grinned and leaned a little bit more forward. "Because I'm taking your pulse".

Sherlock knew he was defeated. "Well played. I suppose I do fancy somebody. Right now, he's lying in a hospital bed because of me. Usually, I wouldn't care, but its John. Is it stupid of me for having such childish feelings?" he asked quietly, defeated.

Violet looked at her son, "What makes it childish? If you're worried about your actions being altered, you shouldn't. When I met your father, I was worried about the same things. Do you know what? It made my mind stronger. Trust me, Sherlock Holmes. Now you should trot on off to bed. It's late. Goodnight my dear".

Sherlock stood and said goodnight, giving his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. He made his way back to his room and locked the bedroom door behind him. The tall man undressed down to his underpants, and opened his suitcase. It didn't take long for him to locate his nightclothes. A folded garment caught his attention, and he pulled it out. It was John's jumper that Sherlock had borrowed. Without a second thought, he unfolded it and pulled it over his head. It was a bit short, and very loose on him. Perhaps that was why Sherlock had never seen him wear it. The fabric was incredibly soft, and Sherlock felt extremely comfortable curled up in bed wearing it. He drifted off to sleep after a short time, wrapped in the warmth of the soft garment.

**A.N: In case anybody was wondering, I did some research, and found that Mummy Holmes's first name would most likely be Violet, due to the fact that ACD was apparently very fond of the name. I'm just going to run with that headcannon for now until proven otherwise!  
Again, sorry for the poor structure and literary skill.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"You're going to have to be extremely careful about this. I'm not a physiotherapist, John".

Karen helped John sit up straight in the bed and hang his legs off the side. John had practically begged her to help him walk earlier than his physio appointment. Grimacing, he tried to ignore the pain that flared up in his leg.

"I'll be fine. Trust me. I need to get up and do something before I die of _boredom_," he reassured. Karen put one arm around his back and held onto his hand with the other. Slowly, she helped him onto his feet. The ex-army doctor yelped quietly when weight was placed on his leg. It was only the damaged calf muscles moving beneath his healing wound, and he knew full well it was only going to hurt more if he decided to continue. That was a chance he was willing to take.

Karen noted the yelp and held him up. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked, concerned. John nodded sharply. The nurse very slowly let go of John, letting him hold up his own weight, which he did with only a small groan. The chairs in the room were set up as a sort of railing for John to hold on to whilst he took his first steps.

"Now, hold on to the bed and the chairs, and try to take a step. I'll be here if you need me okay?" Karen let go of John entirely, leaving him to hold himself up. The first step was nearly excruciating, mostly because he could feel the muscles pulling on the ruined skin, tearing in places. Biting his lip hard, he took another step. The walking was surprisingly easy, and with each step, he became much more confident that it was going to work. Karen smiled and urged him on with words of praise. John walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He was still covered in bandages, but the winning smile on his face was enough to distract from it. He walked back to the bed and sat down, smiling from ear to ear.

"Great work John! That was really good. We probably should have waited until your appointments first," Karen hooked him back up to the machines as he lay down in his bed.

"Pfft, they'll try and give me electrotherapy and force me into exercises that I'm not convinced will actually do anything for my leg. It's good to be up and about on my own terms. Thanks for helping me out," he grinned. There was no way he wasn't feeling better. He had the sudden urge to text Sherlock and tell him, but stopped himself before reaching his mobile. _Business trip, remember? _He though, and withdrew his arm from its outstretched position. Maybe he'd just wait for Sherlock to see for himself?

There was one room in the Holmes manor that Sherlock had never ventured in his life. He knew that Mycroft had been inside on more than one occasion. Now that the owner of the room was no longer around, it seemed a perfect opportunity to let curiosity get the better of him. Without a sound, the detective slipped out of the library and into the west corridor. Unseen, he strode efficiently to the staircase and up the stairs to the door he was looking for. It didn't take him very long at all to realise the door was locked, and that the lock was nearly unpickable. A heavy groan of annoyance escaped his pale lips, and he leaned his forehead on the door.

"Would you like the key?" Mycroft stood at the top of the stairs, smiling. Sherlock sighed.

"Am I being monitored in my own home?" he replied, turning to face his older brother.

Mycroft laughed, "Why would I need to do that? You're a big boy now. I was on my way up here anyway, but it seems I'm not the only one who had that idea. Now step aside, I'll unlock it".

Pulling a silver pocket watch from his vest pocket, he grasped the small key attached and swiftly opened the door. Sherlock entered the room after him and looked around. The room was very neat, with books lining one wall and paintings lining another. A brilliantly carved writing desk sat facing a stone fireplace on the opposite side of the room. The whole place smelled of cigar smoke and antique cologne. It all looked as if it were from the 1900's. There wasn't a page out of place anywhere. Mycroft walked straight to the desk and sat down. Sherlock walked around, taking in all the data he could.

"I assume there was a reason that Father didn't want us in here?" Sherlock said quietly, sitting down in the large armchair beside the fireplace.

Mycroft pulled a book off the shelf behind him and opened it. "Father never thought you would be interested," he spoke. Sherlock let out a small chuckle.

"It's not as interesting as I was expecting, to be honest," Sherlock remarked with a small smirk. He picked up a book from the small coffee table and opened the cover. In the name space, the words _Siger Holmes_ were written in elegant writing. Mycroft looked up.

"Sherlock, I think it's about time we end this little feud, don't you think?" he sighed. Sherlock was silenced for a moment by the sincerity of the request.

"Why do you say that?" the younger sibling inquired.

"It's becoming tedious, Sherlock, and you know it too," Mycroft responded.

Sherlock looked his brother in the eye. "Why do you _really_ want to?" he questioned. Mycroft smiled a little bit, then sighed.

"I worry about Mummy. You know she's not healthy, Sherlock. I know you've seen it too. We're all she has left, and we can't even be in the same room for five minutes together without causing a war. We can't upset her anymore," Mycroft said very quietly.

Sherlock knew Mycroft was telling the truth. "I wasn't the one who upset her," he retaliated.

Mycroft stood quickly. "We've _both_ upset her, Sherlock! John was right, you are incredibly ignorant about some things!" the older man shouted, making Sherlock blink, stunned for a minute. He hadn't heard Mycroft shout like that for a very long time.

The detective stood. "Why don't you go ahead and tell me! Tell me everything I've missed in all of my years! Go ahead and tell me all the things I've done to upset Mummy, and why not everything I've done to upset _you_ while you're at it! " he shouted in return.

Mycroft silenced, realising his mistake. "You're right," he announced softly. Sherlock raised an angry eyebrow at his brother.

"I'm sorry? Wasn't I wrong a moment ago?" he snapped.

"You weren't there when Sherrinford died. Mummy hasn't been the same since. Sherlock, we need to get over this childish war. We're the only boys Mummy has left, and we need to show her that we can look after each other. I don't know how long she'll be around for, but I don't want her to go to the grave with the knowledge that her sons are in some ridiculous vendetta. We're being selfish. Please, Sherlock," Mycroft stepped over to his brother, who stood wide eyed.

"Who's Sherrinford?" Sherlock asked quietly. Mycroft looked at him with sincere eyes.

"Sherrinford Holmes, eldest son of Siger Holmes. Our brother," he replied in a quiet, low voice.

Sherlock's mind went haywire, trying desperately to process the information he'd just taken in. Why hadn't he known about his oldest brother? Why did nobody tell him that he even _had_ another brother? Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Mummy never wanted to talk about it. Even the mention of his name made her walk out of the room to be alone. Please, Sherlock. We need to stop being so selfish," Mycroft explained.

Sherlock just nodded. "For Mummy," he accepted. His brain racing a hundred kilometres an hour, Sherlock exited the room and swiftly travelled back to his own. He flopped down onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was the first time since John's kidnapping that Sherlock's great mind had been chaotic to any extent. The only thing he wanted to do was speak to John. Reaching out to the bedside table for his phone, he suddenly decided it was a bad idea, and rolled over, clutching one of his many pillows. _John's probably asleep. I shouldn't disturb him. _What was the point of calling his friend when he was going to see him tomorrow?

**A:N: I hope you guys don't mind, but I've played around a bit with what little research I've found on the Holmes family. I'm literally just making up ideas as I go along when it comes to Siger and Sherrinford Holmes. It's only really confirmed that Siger was the father and Sherrinford was the oldest brother. No other information is really confirmed by anybody, so what's written is merely head cannon.  
Hope you enjoyed!**


	14. Chapter 14

**A.N: Sorry for that last chapter. It was really quite bad, and I realise it was probably 200x worse for somebody who hasn't read the same research. I thought I could use some of the research to help the characters settle their differences. Won't be doing that again. Hope you enjoy this one more than the last!**

**Chapter 14**

The drive back to Baker Street was incredibly tedious. Sherlock was itching for something to do, and as a result, spent a majority of the drive poking and prodding at his scarring. He pulled his phone out of his suit pocket and looked over it. He'd received alerts on one text from Lestrade, two texts from Mycroft and a missed call from Mrs Hudson. Lestrade text to inform Sherlock that John's captor had been sentenced to life. He frowned.

_Why weren't we told about the trial? – SH. _

The phone beeped a few minutes later.  
_Didn't want you to be concerned, t_he reply read. Sherlock tutted loudly and rolled his eyes.

_There were no witnesses. We should have been there. – SH_

Sherlock replied speedily to the message, pressing the buttons on his phone harder in annoyance. A reply was received in just as much haste.

_Didn't need you. We had the photos of John and managed to find one of those videos. And that picture of his eyes. It was enough to convince the jury. _

Sherlock didn't bother responding. They were nearing the city, and he was getting increasingly bored. After what seemed like an hour, Sherlock was dropped off at the flat. He swung the suitcase down onto the couch and opened it. After a bit of rummaging, he found a different jacket to replace the rain soaked one he was already wearing. The downpour outside had soaked him through in a matter of minutes. After a quick change, he trotted downstairs and greeted Mrs Hudson, before leaving the flat again to hail a cab.

Meanwhile, John was spending his day walking around his room while Karen watched carefully for any complications.  
"You're doing really, really well. Is it hurting at all?" she asked, leaning on the window's edge. John continued his pacing.

"Yeah, a bit actually, but that was expected," he replied.

Karen nodded slowly, "You should really be on crutches".

"Don't need them. I'm doing fine! To be honest, I feel great. How much longer are they keeping me in for?" John queried. He'd been in hospital for quite a long time now, and was nearing the end of his stay.

"You're healing much faster, so it shouldn't be too long. You can walk, too. Probably in the next week or so maybe, depending on how you feel," the nurse shrugged.

John sighed. "If it were up to me, I'd go home today. I'm not exactly top priority anymore," he joked.

Karen chuckled with him, "Actually, you're the most high-profile patient we've got at the moment. So I'd say you're pretty high priority". They both laughed. John didn't really know what to think about being considered a 'high-profile' patient. It was obviously arranged by Sherlock or Mycroft, he figured. At that thought, the door opened slowly. Karen jumped and rushed to John in case another nurse or a doctor had seen their secret physiotherapy sessions.

Instead of a doctor or a nurse, both were incredibly happy to see none other than Sherlock himself walk through the door.

"Mister Holmes! It's wonderful to see you again," Karen smiled wide. Sherlock gave her a curt nod.

"Sherlock, where have you been?" John asked, walking back to his bed and sitting down.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and sat down on in the chair next to the bed. "I've been busy. You're walking?" he replied. John smiled.

"Yeah, shouldn't be long before I'm out of here, actually," the doctor replied.

"You'll need the cane again. You're limping, quite badly I'm afraid," Sherlock smirked. Karen had left the room to give the men some privacy. John laughed, knowing Sherlock was right.

"How well are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, slightly more serious.

John sighed dramatically and grinned. "That's the first thing everybody asks when they see me. I'm feeling great. To be honest, I'm actually a bit bored. Might start shooting at walls soon. Would be great to go home and have a nice cup of tea," he responded with a laugh.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text message. John raised his own eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted before he managed to get a word out.

"Mycroft is working on it. Expect a reply very shortly," Sherlock confirmed.

The men talked for a while about cases and how Mrs Hudson is doing. Before too long, a doctor entered the room and nervously approached John.

"Doctor Watson, if you're still feeling up to it, you're eligible for discharge now. You just have to sign some paperwork out in the office. We'll run you through all of the things you need to do," the young doctor said, before leaving the room.

John laughed a bit, "Do you think they're sick of dealing with Mycroft?" he jokingly asked. Sherlock responded in a deep chuckle.

John left the room to fill in said paperwork, whilst Sherlock stayed in the room to gather his blogger's possessions. The two walked slowly out to the main foyer, where a driver was waiting for them. The two sat in near silence for the ride home, thanking the driver once they arrived. It was a bit of a task for John to walk up so many stairs. Sherlock practically carried him up to the flat. John smiled, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of his home. He sat down in his armchair whilst his flatmate made tea.

Sherlock brought out the tea and sat down at the table by the window. He opened up his laptop, touching the dents lightly. John looked around, noticing the suitcase, and a particular item inside it. Hauling himself up, he walked over to the case and pulled on the familiar fabric.

"Sherlock, this is my jumper?" he said, puzzled. Sherlock didn't even look up.

"Yes it is," he responded.

"Why is it in your suitcase? You took it with you?" John asked.

"Yes I did," was the only response. John rolled his eyes and put his hand down to steady himself. Something hard moved beneath his hand, and he silently searched through the case to see what it was. He uncovered a leather bound book, held shut by a strap. It was heavy and full of papers. Figuring that it couldn't hurt to have a look, he undid the strap and opened the front page. The first page was blank, except for a small amount of writing around the top of the book.

"Sherlock's case book…" John read out loud, "Don't touch, Mycroft". Letting out a small laugh, he flipped through a few pages and had a look. A lot of the 'cases' were incredibly simple, like something that a kindergartener would investigate. John flipped through to find a torn notebook page, covered in messy writing.

"Mycroft says I'm too young to go to school with him. That's nonsense. I'm smarter than all of those idiots. I asked Mummy, and she said that I have to be six to go to school," John read aloud, and Sherlock's head snapped to look at him.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. John laughed.

"You were solving cases before you were even six years old? And you had a diary?" he smirked.

Sherlock frowned. "I liked to keep records of what I'd done. Put it down," he responded.

John flipped through another few pages. There were pencil drawings of plants and human anatomy on different pages.

"Wow, you were good at art for a child. Oh, what does this say?" John caught a piece of paper as it fell out. Unfolding it, he read a few lines.

"I was right. School is very easy. The some of the teachers say I'm gifted. I disagree. They're all just idiots. Mycroft built me a safe today. He's the best," John chuckled.

Sherlock threw himself down onto the free space of the couch and curled up into a ball, facing the wall. John frowned a little and placed the book on the coffee table.

"I'm not making fun of you, y'know. You sound incredibly smart for a five year old. I'll put it away if it makes you feel any better," John offered. No response.

With a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes, John made his way to the door. "I'm going to go upstairs and go to bed".

Sherlock jumped up and walked down the hallway and back again. "Sleep in my bed," he instructed. John raised his eyebrow at his flatmate.

"What?" he stammered. Sherlock walked into the living room.

"I don't need to sleep. You use my bed, saves you from going up and down the stairs," Sherlock responded confusedly, "Didn't you hear me?"

John nodded quickly, "Uhh thanks," he replied, and walked down to Sherlock's room, closing the door behind him. Everything was incredibly tidy, and John noticed a framed poster of the periodic table of the elements hanging up behind the door. He sat down on the bed and leaned his cane against the wall. He removed his shoes and tucked himself up under the covers. The bed was incredibly comfortable, he noticed.

It didn't take a long time before John was drifting off to sleep, the faint sound of a violin playing in another room.


	15. Chapter 15

**I figure this should have a trigger warning. Just to be on the safe side.**

**Chapter 15**

The whole scene around him was blurry. John tried his hardest to focus on his surroundings, but to no avail. He had just woken up, tied to the uncomfortable chair, rope cutting into his skin where his hands were bound. Tears began to stream down his face.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of noise and movement in front of him. A flowing black coat swooped over his captor, and John just knew it was Sherlock. Attempting to cry out to his friend, John became more and more hopeful that maybe he would be saved. Sherlock fought the opponent until he seemed unconscious. The detective stood for a moment, then walked over to John, who was thrashing in his bindings with what little energy he had left.

Before Sherlock could take three steps, an ear piercing bang echoed through the room. John watched in horror as Sherlock fell to the ground, followed by a shower of skull fragments. Blood and gore flowed out of the horrendous hole in chunky rivers. John looked in horror as his flatmate, his best friend lay dead on the ground staring up with his beautiful grey eyes. Beautiful, _dead_ eyes. John let out a throat tearing shout and screamed Sherlock's name over and over. No reply.

A violent shaking woke John from his sleep, and he looked up into a pair of beautiful, _alive_, grey eyes. Sherlock was holding his shoulders, an extremely concerned look on his face.

"John, are you okay? Are you okay?" the detective asked hurriedly.

John's face was covered in sweat and tears. "Sherlock, oh god. Oh god," he tried to speak, but was cut off with a heavy sob. Sherlock didn't let go of John's shoulders, but his grip softened a little bit.

"Are you okay John?" Sherlock asked again. John nodded. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed.

"You were shouting and screaming. My name mostly, so I came to check on you. When I came in, you were thrashing about, shouting and crying madly. What happened?" Sherlock questioned with genuine concern, his eyes fixed on his flatmate.

John sat up and buried his face in his hands. "Just… nightmares, I'll be fine though," he replied, his voice sounding strained.

"No you won't. Judging by your actions, you must have been experiencing quite a horrendous nightmare. Talking about it will most likely help you to rationalise the thoughts and reduce the risk of having the nightmare again. Trust me John." Sherlock looked his friend dead in the eye.

John sighed heavily. He knew Sherlock was right. "Okay, fine. I was back in that place, and you came in and started to fight the kidnapper, and when you came over to get me, you were shot and part of your head was blown apart. Then I looked into your eyes and watched you bleed out," he explained, tears threatening to fall down his already wet cheeks.

Sherlock's eyes had widened a bit, not daring lo look away from John. He felt a drop in his chest after hearing John's experience, and couldn't explain why he himself was getting a bit emotional.

"I see, well, you don't have to worry about that anymore. You're out now. This is what's real, and you are home safe. And though me being shot is a plausible situation, I'm not stupid enough to let it happen. Don't worry about it," Sherlock reassured.

John met his gaze properly, "can you promise that it won't happen though?"

"I can't promise, but I will try my hardest," Sherlock replied, not breaking eye contact. This made John smile a little. A little flutter in Sherlock's chest took him by surprise. He was getting emotional, though he wouldn't admit it. There was something inside him that wanted to lean forward and take his friend into a reassuring embrace. Of course, he tried to suppress the urge.

Sherlock stood and placed his hand on John's shoulder gently. "Come, I'll get a bath started for you. Take some time to calm down," he smiled. With a quick turn he walked to the bathroom.

John could hear water running, and when he entered the bathroom, Sherlock had already left. A smile crept onto his face as he waited for the bathtub to fill. It was strange that Sherlock was being so comforting and concerned, but it was good to know that he cared.

After he had finished his bath, John walked back into Sherlock's room to find a set of clean clothing folded neatly on the end of the bed. A pair of boxer shorts, a t-shirt and John's bathrobe. Obviously Sherlock had meant for John to be dressed comfortably.

Once he had dressed, he grabbed his cane and limped into the living room, where a fresh cup of tea was waiting on the coffee table next to his chair. John sat down, and Sherlock looked up from where he was sitting on his own chair. John glanced at the clock and noticed that it was four in the morning.

"Uhh, thanks," John said, sipping out of the cup. Sherlock stood up and walked across to the other coffee table to grab something, and returned to his seat. He held the object out to John.

"I thought you didn't want me to read that?" John queried. Sherlock shrugged.

"It doesn't matter," the detective replied. John took the book from the outstretched hand and opened it. He read a few pages and came across another loose page.

John smiled and read a part of it out loud. "A few of my things went missing today. My microscope, book and an experiment I was doing. Me and Alexander found them in Mycroft's room. He gave me back my stuff and told me that playing with smurfs is immature. I was using it for an experiment. Mummy said I couldn't have any acid because she was afraid I might put it on him," he read, chuckling a little at the last part.

"So you were going to pour acid on Mycroft because he nicked your smurf?" he laughed.

Sherlock smirked a little bit. "He would have deserved it," he replied in a slight chuckle.

Both men laughed. They sat up and read from the old casebook until sunrise, laughing at the things Sherlock had written about school and especially the things he wrote about Mycroft. Occasionally, Sherlock would get up and make them some tea, whilst John continued reading aloud from the book. John had nearly forgotten about his earlier nightmare, and Sherlock was enjoying himself thoroughly. It was good to be almost back to normal again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson's shouts were heard from downstairs, but by the time the two men had decided to answer, there was already a firm knock on the front door. Out of instinct, John went to stand and get the door, but was gently pushed back into the chair by a large hand. With a resigned sigh, John made himself comfortable again.

"Ah, Mycroft. Come in," Sherlock greeted. John looked up to see the older Holmes brother standing in their flat. John smiled and gave a curt nod.

"Ah, John! It's good to see you're home so soon, and looking quite well too," Mycroft approached John with a smile. Sherlock smiled at his flatmate, who could feel that something was a little odd.

The tall detective put a hand on John's shoulder. "Would you like some tea?" he asked, looking down at his flatmate, who managed to stammer out a quick yes. "I thought so. Mycroft, would you like a coffee or some tea?" Sherlock asked politely. John raised an eyebrow.

"Coffee, thank you," Mycroft replied. Sherlock made drinks and took up his place standing by the window. The three men engaged in general conversation, which to John's surprise, stayed quite civil. It was only when Sherlock's mobile rang did the detective finally furrow his brow and tut in annoyance.

"Lestrade, what is it?" he demanded, a very _Sherlock_ kind of greeting.

"_We need you down here. It's definitely a triple homicide, but the body parts have been cut off and mixed up to stitch together three weird… creatures. It's horrendous," _Lestrade sounded as if he was going to be sick.

Sherlock felt an internal struggle taking position in his head. "I need to stay with John," he replied bitterly.

"_This is way too serious to ignore, Sherlock. John's a grown man who can look after himself for a few hours," _The detective inspector was getting audibly impatient.

Sherlock argued with himself for a moment, and then made a decision. "Text me the address, I'll be there as soon as I can," he finalised, before hanging up.

"Mycroft, I need you to keep an eye on John until I get home," The detective instructed, and before anybody could protest, he had swept out of the door and down the stairs.

There was a lengthy moment of awkward silence between them, and John would be damned if it stayed that way. With a subtle lean forward, he cleared his throat and began to speak. "Okay, what's going on?" he asked sternly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked confused. "Whatever do you mean?" He replied innocently.

"You know what I'm talking about, with Sherlock. You two haven't strangled each other yet? What's the deal?" John pressed the question further.

Mycroft gave in with a short chuckle. "We agreed to settle our differences. Is that so hard to believe?" The reply came in the familiar, secretive voice.

John gave a short laugh of disbelief. "If we're being honest, yes, it's hard to believe. How did you get him to agree to that? Did you drug him up?" the smaller man started to laugh again. Mycroft gave a chuckle and leaned back in his chair.

"I'll let him tell you, if he will," Mycroft replied.

John shrugged, thinking of every possible method that Mycroft would have used to persuade his adorably stubborn younger brother. Perhaps he'd ask Sherlock when he returned from his business. Whatever his _business_ was. The more John thought of Sherlock, the warmer he felt in his chest. It wasn't until Mycroft had given him a strange look did he realise the huge smile on his face.

"I assume you're enjoying your thoughts?" the Holmes brother queried, his voice containing an elusive layer of friendly sass.

"What made it obvious?" John joked back. His face turned slightly more serious, and he cleared his throat again.  
"Thank you, by the way, y'know, for the help. It's really appreciated," he said clearly, looking Mycroft in the eyes as he spoke.

Mycroft smiled, "It's really no problem at all. You most certainly deserve a lot more than second rate care. Sherlock would have run wild if he thought you weren't getting looked after properly".

John pictured Sherlock running amok in the hospital. It wouldn't be the first time, which made John chuckle a bit.

"So when will we be expecting a happy announcement?" Mycroft smiled almost cheekily. John's cheeks went a light shade of pink.

"What do you mean? I'm not actually gay," John replied a little too quickly.

The tall man looked at him with a look as if to say _you can't fool me_. John knew he was caught out this time. Instead of becoming too embarrassed, he figured it would be a good time to ask for advice. If anybody knew how Sherlock's brain worked, if would be his brother.

"John, really. You should know by now that you can't put anything past me. You obviously fancy him. It's really quite obvious, sorry to say," Mycroft spoke matter of factly.

"Wait, what do you mean _obvious_? Look, I need advice," John inquired.

"You want to know if Sherlock reciprocates your feelings".

John shrugged. "Sort of. I mean, he's said before that he's married to his work or something. What I really want to know is if I should even bother trying?" the question came quietly. John felt like a silly teenage girl asking her mates for advice.

Mycroft thought for a second. With a smile, he stood from his chair and picked up his umbrella. "I don't quite know how to give you the answer you're looking for, but if it makes any difference, I can offer you one piece of advice. Sherlock is most definitely married to his work. It will do you well to remember that you are a part of his work. Now I must be going. I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Lovely seeing you, John".

With that, Mycroft gave a polite nod and exited the flat, leaving John to ponder the small amount of advice.

Sherlock had been working his way around the crime scene for a while, picking apart the evidence and occasionally insulting Anderson. With a flourish, he finished his examining and moved over to Lestrade to rattle off his deductions, a few of which had genuinely shocked the Detective Inspector. It took at least fifteen minutes to ensure that all the details were written down properly.

Lestrade exhaled heavily and leaned back onto the front of the nearest police vehicle.

"You aren't going to be sick are you?" Sherlock asked, not exactly too concerned. Lestrade gave a smirk and a shake of the head.

"Nah, can't say I've seen worse though. I can't believe there are people out there that could bring themselves to do that," he replied, trying to keep somewhat light hearted.

"It's not that hard to believe, when you think about it," Sherlock responded.

Lestrade shrugged. "Oh, by the way, how are things with John? You guys y'know," Lestrade started.

Sherlock interrupted, "Are we what?" he retorted with a perplexed look on his face.

"Well, are you guys... together yet?" Lestrade finished, drawing out the word _together_.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "John is home from the hospital, yes," he responded.

Lestrade tutted and tried to make it clearer. "No, I mean, are you two _together. _Like, umm, are you two dating yet?" he corrected, figuring it would be a lot easier to take away the subtlety.

Sherlock frowned, "No, why would you think that?" he reacted.

Lestrade laughed a little, making Sherlock frown a little harder. "Oh come on, you're crazy for him!" his laugh turned into a quiet chuckle.

Sherlock acted as if he were offended by the remark. There was no way he was love-sick for John. Well, he told himself that there was no way. He knew that he had some feelings for John, and that he had probably confessed them stupidly whilst drugged up on morphine. Oddly, there wasn't a hint of regret in his mind. They did kiss, and Sherlock could remember it foggily. John had just come out of surgery, and was most likely still a bit delirious. He probably didn't mean the things he'd said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he finally replied.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and exhaled, "You can't lie to me, especially when I've known for _months. _You fancy him, that's about as blunt as I can put it for you".

Sherlock thought about this for a moment, pondering the possibility that he really was in love with John. Neither of them had spoken about the incident, and Sherlock continued to act as if it never happened.

"Even if I did _fancy_ John, I would never tell him," Sherlock quietly replied, trying not to draw attention to their conversation.

"Why not? Afraid that Doctor 'I'm not gay' Watson will reject you?" the DI replied with a short chuckle, cut short by an icy glare gifted to him by Sherlock. "Look, you two are bloody made for each other. For somebody as smart as you, I'm actually surprised you haven't noticed yet. All I'm saying is, just tell him".

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, "Oh yes, like that won't sound ridiculous at all. '_Oh by the way John, I really quite fancy you'._ Pathetic," he sassed.

"Who said you have to sound like a young lad. John's a tough one, so you don't have to sugar coat it. Just tell him. Trust me. And if it all goes wrong, you have my permission to punch me right in my face," Lestrade reassured, holding his hand out to Sherlock, who shook it firmly.

"I shall keep that in mind," the consulting detective replied, making his way out of the crime scene and into a cab.

The whole cab ride home was spent deep in thought. It was definite that he was going to tell John, but the remaining question was _how?_  
Planning ahead was fruitless, and Sherlock decided that he would work out what to do when it came time to actually tell John. Getting out of the cab, he tried to think up a last-second plan, to no avail.  
It was now or never.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Before he even realised, Sherlock had reached the top of the stairs, one hand on the door handle. Not yet had he worked out a plan, which was strange considering he usually always had a plan. Straightening himself up a bit, he entered the flat smoothly, his regular grace unaltered by his annoyance at himself. It didn't take more than two seconds to notice that Mycroft was not present. Just John.

"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice sounding out from the kitchen. Sherlock found him sitting down, leaning against the counter. There was a strained look on his face, and his eyes were red. Smiling up to his flatmate, he brought one knee up to his chest.

Sherlock walked over to his companion and kneeled down in front of him. Hundreds of small ceramic shards covered a tea-soaked patch of floor, and no attempt had been made to clean the mess. Judging by John's state, and the state of the kitchen, something had happened to make him extremely upset, causing him to drop his cup of tea.

"John, are you all right? What happened, where's Mycroft?" Sherlock queried urgently.

John nodded a few times, "I'm okay, I'll be fine. Mycroft had to leave a bit after you left. Had a meeting to go to or something. Where were you?"

Sherlock sat down cross-legged, looking his friend in the eyes. "What happened?" he asked again.

"I dozed off for a while," John started.

"It was the dream again, wasn't it?" Sherlock questioned quietly. Perhaps John really was showing signs of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It only took a simple nod for Sherlock to understand. With a quick motion, the detective stood and offered a hand to John, who graciously accepted. Once the two were on their feet, Sherlock led John to the living room, and returned to the kitchen to clean up the shattered mess. As soon as the cleaning was done, he joined John in the living room, walking in to find the doctor holding a folded garment.

"Found your jacket. It had a few tears in it, so I stitched them up. Gave it a wash too, hope you don't mind," John said, holding out the folded jacket for his friend.

Sherlock stepped closer to John and took the coat, his hands brushing over John's unintentionally. Both men looked at each other for a moment, before John turned to sit down. Blushing furiously, he limped over and sat on the arm of his chair, stretching his leg out. Sherlock stood unmoving, looking down at the coat. He unfolded the garment and put it on, feeling over the expertly stitched seams where the holes were. It felt good to be wearing the heavy coat after so long without it.

Without thinking, Sherlock walked over to John and took his face in his hands. Before John could say a word, Sherlock had pressed his lips to his friend's. John was wide eyed, but didn't object.

Finally, the detective pulled back, separating the two. John was blushing a shade of red that would seem like sunburn. "Well, that's uhh, that's quite a thank-you," he stammered.

Sherlock kept eye contact with John. "I harbour romantic feelings for you. Considering our states whilst in hospital, it seems only fair to give you a proper confession now".

John was taken aback. He'd just figured that Sherlock was so dosed up on painkillers that he was just being silly. "But, uhh, aren't you… aren't you married to your work?" he managed to say.

Sherlock smiled. "I thought you were part of my work? I completely understand if you object," he said coolly.

"This is an experiment, isn't it?" John asked, as if already knowing it was. He looked down at his leg, extending it and rolling his ankle.

Sherlock blinked a few times, unsure what to say. A thin vein of sadness crept through his chest. Did John really not trust his confession? Did John not trust _him?_

"You don't believe me. You think that I'm playing with you as an experiment. You're afraid of me hurting your feelings," the detective started.

"Stop," John said bluntly.

Sherlock looked at John. "Why don't you believe me?"

John stood up, wincing a little. He walked over to the window and turned his back to it. He started to laugh a bit. "Because we're all idiots, aren't we? It's hard to believe you'd lower yourself to loving somebody _normal_," he replied.

"You're right. I couldn't love somebody that is simply normal. Since when have you considered yourself normal? You're not exactly a genius yourself, but you provide a foundation to _my _genius. I've told you before, you are a conductor of light, and I imagine that life without you would be hatefully dull," Sherlock explained, confused at why John was acting defensive.

John smiled, "Well, there's not much point in denying that I don't have feelings for you. It feels silly, doing this whole confession thing. Bit like a chick-flick".

With a laugh, Sherlock walked over to the fireplace. "If it is more fitting, I could get some roses and champagne?" he joked.

John laughed and paced the room in a slow limp. That was when he noticed something. A syringe was sitting on the table. It was clean, with its cap still on. John walked over and picked it up.

"Sherlock, what's this?" he asked quietly.

The detective shrugged, "A syringe, obviously. You should know that".

John's eyes widened as he remembered a conversation from their first case. His hand closed tight around the needle and he looked at his flatmate. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't. Oh my god. Oh my god you did," his grip tightened on the object.

Sherlock stepped forward, "John,"

"You said you were clean, Sherlock!" John cut off loudly.

Sherlock stepped back, "Well did I think you were dead back then? I don't believe I did!" he retaliated.

"Wait, you thought I was dead?" John asked in a quiet voice.

"I didn't exactly think you were dead_ yet_. Every lead I'd salvaged was wrong. The only stone solid lead I'd managed to find was useless. I needed something to think," Sherlock tried to explain.

John had to sit down. He grabbed the chair from beside the table and sat down. Looking to his feet, he took notice of the unusual number of letters in the dustbin. It was probably just mail that Sherlock was too lazy to open, he figured.

Sherlock walked over to kneel in front of John. Putting a hand to the Doctor's cheek, he lifted the slightly tanned face to look at him. "I'm sorry," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to John's forehead.

John looked down to his flatmate. "Promise me you will _never_ even think about it again," he almost whispered.

Sherlock nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. "I Promise".

**A.N: Hope I got the whole confession thing right!  
It's probably a good time to tell you that I'm not putting smut in this fic. I sincerely apologise for any of you who are waiting for it, and those who literally waited 17 chapters for something to happen.  
The reason is, I can't actually write proper smut yet. It just reads horribly. Without sounding pretentious, I quite like this fic, and I don't want to ruin it with a terribly written sex scene.  
Thank you for understanding, and for reading this far without it! 3**


	18. Chapter 18

**A.N: You guys have absolutely NO IDEA how sorry I am at how late this update is. No really, I've been feeling like shit for so long because I've had NO time to write more. I've just started grade 12, and I've been feeling worse mentally than I ever have. I really do apologise, and genuinely beg for your forgiveness! 3  
This is only a tiny chapter, with little to no development and a touch of fluff. I just thought to post SOMETHING to let you know I'm not missing.  
Thanks for being so understanding 3 3 3**

**Chapter 18**

Neither man knew exactly what to do. Sherlock stood still, as if lost in his thoughts. John began pacing a little, drumming his hands on his legs.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. "Well, what now?" he asked.

John shrugged, perching himself on the arm of his chair. "I don't know. What do you think?" he responded, stretching out his injured leg which was growing more painful by the minute.

"Well, if I knew, I wouldn't have asked you. What usually happens? You seem to do this often enough," Sherlock stopped for a second, "Yes; you _do _do this often…"

John picked up on exactly what Sherlock was thinking. "No, Sherlock, don't think like that. I just, well. Whatever happens next is up to you, I guess, so yeah," he watched Sherlock sit down by the window. He wondered for a moment if Sherlock had ever been in this situation before.

Sherlock leaned forward in the chair, looking at John, trying to deduce him. It was obvious that his blonde haired companion was slightly nervous, showing signs of tiredness. Apart from that, he could find nothing that he didn't already know.  
"Why only my decision? Aren't people supposed to work together in a relationship?" he asked, a confused and slightly innocent tone to his baritone voice.

"What? Oh, we've skipped right ahead to a relationship have we? Okay, yep, that's err, that's good," John stammered, surprised. He was sure that Sherlock would brush it off now that it was out there. It did startle him that the seemingly cold-hearted super detective would want to initiate a romantic relationship. The thought that such a brilliant man would want a relationship with somebody like him made his heart flutter a bit.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "So, does this make us _boyfriends_, or whatever you call it?" he asked curiously, dragging out the word _boyfriend_ as if it was sour on his tongue.

"No, god, don't use that word. It sounds so childish. Just stick with _partners_ I guess," John replied. There was a strange feeling of pride being able to call himself Sherlock Holmes' partner. A small smile conquered his mouth, growing wider when Sherlock looked at him. All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed by tiredness.

John's eyes went blurry and Sherlock jumped up to catch him before he fell. "You need sleep," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. He helped John walk to Sherlock's bedroom, setting the doctor down on the bed. John laid back on the bed as Sherlock fetched a hot water bottle from the bathroom.

"Take this, it should help," Sherlock said, giving the bottle to John, who was trying to crawl under the blankets. John closed his eyes, drifting off. A weight on the opposite side of the bed made him wake. He rolled over to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him.

"Uhh," John started.

"Just in case you have another nightmare," Sherlock replied.

John smiled a bit. "Are you going to sleep?"

"Highly unlikely, it's only afternoon. I've got a case to think over," the taller man responded.

John shrugged and moved closer, until he was practically leaning on the detective. Sherlock looked down for a moment and placed his arm around John. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes.  
Maybe he would sleep tonight? The most he knew was that he wasn't leaving John's side. He waited until the doctor was fast asleep before shuffling down and bowing his head to quickly kiss John's forehead. With that, he closed his eyes and tried his hardest to fall asleep.

John slept better than he'd done in years.


End file.
